Scrub

Sometimes I just want to get into a hot shower and scrub everything away. Scrub away the anger and the insecurities; scrub away the gender and the assumptions that it’s outward portrayal encourages; scrub and keeping scrubbing until it all feels better, all feels clean.

I can’t make it go away, I can’t scrub at the depression that dogs me, at the insecurities that plague me, at the voice in my head that tells me nothing will ever be better, that life is too insufferably hard sometimes.

I try. I scrub. I feel the heat on my body. When I’m done I feel better, but I know it’s there, a dust disturbed but not disappeared.