This was a short writing exercise for one of my classes this semester.
I stand under the shower head and let the warm water run over my body. The clasp is missing a screw and so the water shoots down towards the wall, away from me and I’m forced to hold it up so the water runs down over my head. As the first bit of water falls from my body and I sort of shake with enjoyment I see the water pooling on the bottom of the tub, dirty, murky. That was all on me. I wash my hair once and try to put my hands in it, they get stuck in the knots. I grab a brush and try once more, still no luck. I wash a second time and see more dirt come out. I try to remember the last time I took a shower. Maybe a week, maybe longer. My hair seems to eat the shampoo and I pour ever-increasing amounts into my hair, and then I scrub my beard. I can feel my fingernails—they need cut—scratching at the skin underneath. I take the bar of soap and scrub each part of my body individually, giving them their due. I watch the water run off me again, dirty, murky. That was all on me. The tub isn’t clean, but I sit down anyways with my head between my knees and I turn the cold water down. I sit there until the water runs cold.