I walk in and throw my faded, ripped, three year old, coca cola pajama pants toward the tub just soft enough to miss the shower curtain. I close the door and take off my shirt, undo my belt, step out of my pants and just stand there and look at myself: my hair is a dull brown, and messed up, but I don't care tonight. My pupils are dilated; a few too many ibuprofen. my nose still looks half broken on the side opposite my scar. my left eye has bags, as it always has, as does my right- between the merging of two faint bruises; one from a Nerf bullet impact turned sty I had removed, the other from a zit which overtook my cheek a few weeks back. my forehead is wrinkled prematurely my unshaven chin and scalp both growing grays. my collarbones stick out enough for me to fit my fist in when I lean forward. my neck widens in the back in a way that looks unnatural. my biceps, chest and stomach are all muscular, firm; the result of two workouts every day. But it is my leg that shows my pain, shows the strength I still tell myself I have or rather the strength of the weakness I sometimes let take over in it's place- knee to ankle; fresh cuts, all bleeding each a quarter inch apart. not the most I've ever had, but the longest stretch of my body I've ever covered completely. and I don't even remember why.