white walls

The best part
is staring into the sound of water meeting water
with my back against the wall, I stretch my toes to reach the other side because

I’m finally short enough.
the bottle
of lavender soap I squeeze and scrub into the floor
the bubbles
always sparkle for some reason

My skin sticks and slides across the porcelain terrain
as I dunk my head in
the water

the faucet’s rushing stream
echoes through my body
and it’s like everyone describes—away

The worst part
is when the tub is full. I wrap my hand around the handle to turn up

the silence
the rose
watered bruise on my inner thigh that I mistake for a stretch mark, like

the ones
that have paled into thin reminders,

I remember swimming between the walls of the family bathroom

stripping down to my leg hair stepping on the scale
wondering if a beating heart weighs more as I squint at the number

before stepping over the edge of the tub I remember

searching for a solution on the internet: twenty-three with four-and-a-half stars, mothers

everywhere writing, I finally feel confident in a swimsuit
Whether they meant a body suit or a bikini, I didn’t ask. Maybe

I should stick to showering—under
the flow
of finite water that holds my scalp, tickling my spine and chest

as I cleanse my ski

But
the unnerving feeling—

what to do when everything is done.

I ponder
the total freedom
to stand there all day, I tell myself

there’s no time.