I washed my hands
but like waking frantic from a dream
I stopped,
and observed the knuckles.
They were so smooth.
The skin was even, white, and moisturized.
The sound of water splashing porcelain seemed so quiet,
and the soap... it was just soap.
The water did not thunder in my ears and linger hours after,
The soap did not feel like acid on my skin,
each pump no longer a breathless affliction,
and my skin was not red,
it was not violently cracked and scraped and bleeding and stinging my hands were not these raw bones that split apart with gritted teeth at my every movement.
And like falling back asleep I went into a daze,
curious how one could forget such a thing,
but on further concentration it did seem so long ago,
when the tear filled affliction plagued every moment,
my teenage life filled with
washing my hands washing my hands washing my hands
but now
I could not remember how many times I left class to clean them until I forced myself from the sink.
Perhaps my hands are clean, finally, perhaps they are washed of what I desperately tried to purge them of.
Or perhaps I remember now, because they have once again begun to feel unclean.
so curious.
how long ago that seems,
how long ago indeed.