I throw myself into the tub.
I attempt to pull the lever with my foot. Success.
The warmth encompasses feet first. Soon it will spread. Soon my hips, belly, breasts will share in the pleasure. My knees and shoulders will not. I remember how I hardly fit in a tub and shove the sour tangibility of the notion away.
I am small, like my worries. Soon mom will be in to shut off my personal waterfall. Soon dad will lift my slippery body into a towel (I’ll squirm but never slip). Soon it will be time for lullabies and kisses.
But it is not evening, I am not small.
The tap runs as urgently as I did from his bed.
I turn it off with super strength toes
I was furious. Why didn’t I matter?
I am washing away shame and attempting to soak away the headache, as if the alcohol’s residual toxins are coated across my skin instead of within the folds of my brain, as if dehydration can be cured through osmosis. A couple Tylenol and many cups of water will cure the ache, but the shame?
I wanted to tell him that he is wrong, that I am not disgusting.
But here I am
w a n t i n g
o n l y
t o d i s s o l v e