I miss that feeling of unlimited time
when I sat as a child
on the bathroom floor after a shower,
drip-drying until satisfied.
Ivory skin— dirtier but softer then,
no raised scars, no broken mounds
to impede passing water beads.
Uninterrupted dragging,
tingling, itching.
I tried to drip-dry yesterday,
to unlock those pockets of endless time.
The droplets plummeted,
hurling themselves off the red mark cliffs.
Cotton towel scrubbed wet body—
flaky epidermis shed.
Music haunted the shower and
continued haunting after,
keeping track of unwanted minutes.
The floor wasn’t suited for sitting—
no bath mat, no carelessness
to make wet linoleum comfortable.
No comfort.
Clean. Mounds of broken flesh.
Interrupted. Lint-clogged pores.
Ivory skin turns into tusks and teeth,
overgrown and in need.
Picked scabs. Forgotten.
The emery board passes by,
takes a look,
and hisses.
–James Ofria