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Cold. It's cold in here. Sticky contour cheeks stained with tears, tap water runs over my hands. My skin sticks to bone like wet sheets of fabric. The faint scent of linen lingers in the tiled bathroom chill, the frothing cloud of bubbles over my hands glimmers, caught under the burning filament light. Fluid thickness glides between the crevices of my intertwined fingers as I scrub. Soap, vicious friction, hand over hand. Scrub, rinse, dry. Sharp exhale, chill down my spine. Ice cold seeps in, in-between grey matter. Slow exhale, piercing panic. My skin sticks to bone like wet sheets of fabric.
image: via Holly Riordan, For The Girls Who Cry In Bathroom Stalls, Thought Catalog, 2019, www.thoughtcatalog.com
