The water hits my skin like the rain on a December night with grey skies that hide the sun. I can tell it’s warmer though by the steam that’s left droplets on the back of my neck and, the shower curtains. I sit there with my knees pulled up to my chest and, my face nestled between them with my right cheek exposed to the warm water that turns cold as it touches my skin. I let my fingers play subconsciously with my toes as the maroon on them is starting to chip.

Another colour? Perhaps another day. Maybe just another coat for now. Today my bones are not ready for a new colour. My attention shifts to the puddles around my feet and I start drawing spirals over them. There is an incomplete satisfaction in water. A tease of sorts. To see your creation for long enough to remember but not long enough to cherish. I rub my arms and then let my palms cup my face and then rest against my collarbones as I lift my face up to the shower head, closing my eyes as I feel the water trickling through my scalp to the tips of my curls, straightening them to their full length. I feel the water flow over my body like, a river dancing through all the mountains and valleys, endlessly, growing flowers on every barren land it kisses. There is a raw comfort in being in your skin, naked of all the worldly insecurities as you see the marks of wounds and stretch on your thighs, and the soft ridges of your rib cage blending into the hollows of your spine, as the soap lathers over them. An act of cleanse, peeling away layers of fear that the society massaged into your skin. There is a fierceness in the way they fall, seeping into your skin to your soul as all that you can hear are the pounding rain, and your beating heart. There is an unsaid Moksh. An unsaid acceptance. 


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