I despise showers. 

Instead I stare at the bathroom’s jagged tiles draped in white in an attempt to mask the blight of my existence. Their blankness echoes the silent boulevard of death. 

I despise shower heads. 

Why must they judge me so?

High and mighty they tower over me with their endless pores as probing eyes their metal tails ready to dance around my neck and strangle me for my sins. What does their judgement add to the pile of broken promises and buried expectations already rising from the bathroom floor?  

The stench has become home now anyways. 

I despise water. 

Swallowed it provides another day to try another day to try and fail and fail and fail so miserably that my reflection only provides a ghost of me the soul sucked sucked right out with a vacuum cleaner that feeds on fallen dreams and pits of self-loathing. 

But in the shower it glides over me its peaceful descent disrupted by the hurdles of my imperfections and scars as it cleans my sins dripping from my already mutilated soul in streams of red circling down the drain back to the leftovers of my hidden suffering. 

Why must the dirty be cleaned? 

I despise myself. 

If all the mirrors in the world could be shattered shatter them I would with a pickaxe sculpted from my lack of self worth slashing and bashing every glassy surface daring to tell me I’m not good enough I’m not good enough I’m not good enough I’m not good enough

I’m not 

enough. 

I despise showers almost as much as I despise myself. I guess we have something in common.