Self-Image

The bath feels like oil

soothing on my skin

but somehow unsatisfying

somehow disgusting

like lounging in freshly cut meats

or the contents of a fat man’s stomach.

The difference is the smell

a thing of roses that wafts

gently tickling my nose

thin and watery and sweet.

It’s soothing and terrible all at once.

I feel thick and lazy

bloated and swelling

blowing up slowly like a balloon house.

My legs rest up on the porcelain

too long for the confined space

and I stare at my reflection

on the mirrored knob

hazy in the heat.

I’m too saturated, too bright,

my skin the colour of peaches

my hair a pale gold.

My limbs, my flesh, it all looks

too big, too heavy,

just hanging limply in the murky water.

I imagine some handsome man

leaning in the doorway

looking down at my outer shell,

his lips perfect and plump as he

smiles and asks if he can join me.

I imagine sitting next to him in the water

staring at our reflections

side by side.

I see his perfect tan against my stark white

I see his perfect muscles as he hugs my soft figure

I see his perfect jaw bend towards my weak chin.

I rustle the water so he disappears and

sink beneath the still surface.