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I undress, look at myself in the mirror with no special acknowledgement of the worn-down woman who looks back at me, and then climb into the shower, turn on the hot water, and once the temperature’s set to exactly where I want it, when the water begins to feel like a womb, I cry into my palms. Under the shower’s waterfall, I squint, sniffle, choke. I cough. I stutter my way through every defeated sound I know, and I hate myself for making them. I hope no one can hear me, and that the shower will keep my secret. I cry like that until I have nothing left in me, until I’ve been emptied, and then I stop and decide that it’s over, that I should stop feeling sorry for myself. That I’ve already held myself together for this long. That I can’t break apart again now.
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