In the morning, I took my shower silently. Carefully, I spent an hour washing away every last bit of you from my skin, my hair, and from every crook of my body. It took a bar of soap and by the end of it, my nails were so white and fingers so pruney, that I knew there was nothing left of you. You were gone, out with the hot, soapy water, traveling through the pipes and maybe out to sea. I brushed my teeth, letting the streams of water pound against my face as I scrubbed away at my tongue. I spat away the last of your kiss, I couldn’t taste you anymore. Shower off.
I wrapped a towel around my head, patted my hair dry and let it sit on my shoulders. Naked, in front of the mirror, I saw what I was without you. Clean, white skin, dimples, flesh that started showing signs of aging at an age too young.
But, in the end it was clear: you would always be somewhere in me, no matter how many times I tried to shower you away and started anew. And god damn, I didn’t have the money for the water bills if I wanted to spend an hour in the shower every day, trying to get rid of you.
