waterfalls cascade over my shoulders,
under my armpits, between my legs;
gush out in torrents,
sloppily swirling down the drain.

red-hot blisters crack my skin, the back of my neck;
steam curls around my slumped, shaking body.

the cool bathroom tile does nothing to soothe
the burns of the boiling hot water.

i am bathing in a paradox;
the ice and fire together.

and yet i do not feel anything.
or perhaps i feel too much.

i wish i knew why i do this to myself;
why i must torture myself daily.

why instead of feeling relaxed after a shower,
i feel exhausted, and so, so, tired; my body
succumbing to the land of dreams and make-believe.

then my mother asks me,
like she sometimes does,
asks me, “are you okay, honey?”

i give that cliched answer every
single
time.

“i’m fine.”

that answer every depressed
fourteen-year-old girl gives
when they’d been found
staring blankly into space

when not only a few minutes ago
they’d been in the school bathroom
slitting their wrists and trying to stifle their
choked sobs.

perhaps i like feeling numb.
perhaps the numbness is the best escape.
perhaps feeling nothing
is what i like feeling.

this makes me laugh so hard
you don’t have to believe it
for it to be true:

isn’t it such a tragic thing.
that you lie so much.
and no one has a ******* clue.