The Showers

Everyone asked what took you so long in the shower every night, but you were too ashamed to let them know. It was a shameful act, one that was deemed acceptable based on your maturity. Your mother always asked you why it took so long. You were unhealthily thin, your hair the same. It couldn't take that long just to clean it. Your father always mentioned the sounds. The small intakes of breath, the muffled sounds that slipped through your mouth, tightly shut to disguise the noise. You were too ashamed to tell them. To tell them you spent most of the time with your back to the floor, positioned so that the shower head drummed relentlessly against your chest. You discovered early on that if you turned the faucet to the hottest temperature possible, it would create a sense of numbness across the ribs protruding through the thin layer of fat. Everyone asked what took you so long in the shower every night, but you were too ashamed to let them know. Crying was a shameful act.