Jess was only ten when the first pods washed up on the shore. She'd been standing with her toes dug into the sand, letting the cold Atlantic Ocean swirl around her ankles, daring herself to venture ... [+]
this shower comes at night, before the heat has sputtered on and the oven hisses gas with dinner—
there is no new dirt for soap to strip away; only distraction for the hands and arms and fingertips
wandering beneath the cascades of steam, breaking soft over bleach stained curtains onto chipped tile floor
arranging myself from patches of fog in the mirror—
eyelid
knot of hair, incisor—
greeting a new face with each ritual
there is no new dirt for soap to strip away; only distraction for the hands and arms and fingertips
wandering beneath the cascades of steam, breaking soft over bleach stained curtains onto chipped tile floor
arranging myself from patches of fog in the mirror—
eyelid
knot of hair, incisor—
greeting a new face with each ritual