Senior year

I

Silently, I sit and let my hair fall softly through the bristles of my brush. Each auburn strand burning beneath the warm light of my bedroom. In the other room I hear my mother humming their song, I can even hear the soft whimpers between verses. I can hear the steam erupting from the iron, the sound she hopes drowns out her sorrow and hides it from me and my brother but I can still hear her. We can still hear her.

In the other room my brother sits typing at his computer, working late into the night again. Every night. If I really listen I can hear his hands running through his dark brown hair, I can hear his nails digging into his desk.

I know they're both struggling. But, we cope. We survive.

Placing down my brush I walk to the bathroom across the corridor and quickly turn on the water. At first the droplets are freezing and send the room into a damp chill but as the water heats up steam begins to envelope me, warming me. I remove my jeans, oversized jumper, shirt and vest to reveal me. Just me. No mask. No cover. Just me.

I'm human. I'm a real person.

Climbing in I feel the water collide against my skin. Some of the droplets race down my body while others stay there casting iridescent shades against my pale skin.

Like stars my freckles are scattered across my body, dark concentrated areas of melanin. Each freckle shows the battle of the skin against sunlight, something that would seem so pure. Sometimes the sun can burn you.

On my legs stretch marks spread like waves, the white marks of a tiger erupt like sea foam. Cellulite, the gentle cascade of the surrounding waves.

My body is a canvas. Through age it has been shaped and formed, painted by the beauty and danger of nature.

My body is a nights sky. It is laced with intricate lively hood that the human eye can't comprehend.

My body is human. My body is unique.

I don't love myself. I don't like how my stretch marks show the pain of my weight that pushed against the skins boundaries. I don't like how my cellulite has taken over my skin like ivy on an abandoned house.

I hate that when I look in a mirror the art I once adored is stripped to its bare bone, the outline of something that could have been magnificent the skeleton-the backbone- of something that I could have been proud of.

Letting the soap cascade through my thick, red locks I notice the intertwined shades of brown and blonde. I'm the only one in my family with auburn hair. My mother is brunette and so is my brother, they're so similar that I often wonder who I belong to aesthetically.

Suddenly I get shampoo in my eyes, a stinging sensation erupts causing me to rub ferociously. That shit stings like a bitch. I grab for a towel to wipe my eye. Having been hot with the realisation of time I briskly finish my shower and wrap myself in a towel.

Checking the coast is clear I race towards my room and quietly shut the door. Quiet however is a mere dream in this house as the door squeaks on its hinges. Sighing profusely I remember be my towel and throw on an oversized jersey and boy shorts.

I look in my mirror and sigh deeply again. I wanted to be beautiful like my mother. With her dark brown hair that shines under any light and her gentle and flawless complexion; she looks much younger than 38.

I can't even imagine how she looked when she had me at a mere age of 21. I often wonder if I was a mistake and she only wanted my brother.

~•~

My phone vibrates loudly, I jump out of my skin and almost forget to breathe as my mind wanders through every possible reason for that noise.