post-scrub.

The morning sun was shining through the slats of the blinds on my south-facing window. I sat on the floor, my hair dripping on the carpet, wrapped in a towel. I hate stepping on wet spots on the carpet. It feels unsettling to my callous-less wintertime foot. Dry skin, shriveled and un-sunned, but never quite ivory. (I am very conscious of this.) Pull knees to chest, chin to knees. Wrap the towel tighter. I sink slowly into an imaginary well, swallowed whole, lower and lower. So low so low. Slow and wholly. Maybe I can will myself into nonexistence and all that will be left is wet spots on the carpet, until they evaporate and we are all gone. Gone below.