I look at the ring on my right hand. At that moment, I hate it. I hate it because it is everything I am supposed to be. A band of gold with a diamond in the center. No sharp corners– perfectly curved and molded to make the viewer feel comfortable.
I want to throw it. I want to throw it and hear the satisfying sounds it makes as it hits the mirror, hopefully leaving a scratch on it and clatters onto the shelf. But of course I won't do it. "Coward," a voice inside me says. It sounds like a snake. Yes. I am– coward.

Maybe this is why I like snakes. They don't sugarcoat things. I press my thumb onto the tip of my other ring. Shaped like a snakehead, the tip is sharp. I press it in, harder and harder, my hands shaking. Harder. It stings. The pain is welcome. I do not cry– I want to feel every second of it. Harder.

Gasping, I let go. It was a lot of force, but still not enough to break the skin. "Coward"– I say it before I hear it. That is one thing I will always be. Coward.

I walk over to the shower, my long hair open, trailing the bare flesh of my back and thighs. I am painfully aware of every gruesome inch of my body, the fleshy, chubby stomach, the hairy legs, my too-large feet, thick thighs, small face. I hate myself too.

As I turn on the shower, the shock of the obnoxiously cold water jerks the tears out of my eyes. I take this opportunity to cry without having to feel my own tears as the water runs down me, drenching my hair, wettening my legs. I feel my face contort with all the unshed tears it is trying to force out. The tears are coming in waves now, blurring out the already blur world.
I double over, shivering and crying, the shower water pattering on my back like freezing rain. It has been so long that crying actually hurts. The next few minutes, the only thing I am aware of is the cold water and the warm tears.

I see a drop of pure red fall from the scratch on my knee. It turns the water pooled underneath me ever so slightly pink before dissipating. I step back into reality. I realize I am still bent over, cold, shivering. 'Warm water,' I think. I should have used some warm water from the bucket. I drag it over from the corner, just an arm's length away, and pour the water over myself. After the shower, it feels downright boiling, but I don't care.

I am not crying anymore. I try to sing. It comes out as a disgusting croak. I make myself soap and shampoo my body. I bathe. By the end of it, I can hit the high note without cracking.

So, the pain is gone today. I fought that demon again. Maybe tomorrow it will come back, maybe in a few days. I will have to fight it again. Win, you say? There are no winners in this. Some demons, you have to fight and fight, alone, for all eternity.



© All Rights Reserved



Thanks for reading
XOXO
An