Clean
	She lowers herself into the warm, comforting water. She sinks down into the porcelain pool, and almost begins to purr. The warm, sudsy water makes her feel drowsy and content. The water laps gently at her ankles, making soft sounds. Soothing sounds. She starts to drift away. She wants to get lost at sea in her bathtub. But the water gets too hot and the tub is starting to overflow. She turns off the faucet and lazily snatches a container of face cream. She lathers it onto her face, covering every inch except her eyes, and mouth. She almost looks ghostly. Like a water nymph, beckoning those lost at sea to follow her to their watery grave. She sinks back down into the warm water. Her hands flit about in the water playfully, then become still and float to the top of the water like leaves. She closes her eyes and runs a finger down her leg, enjoying the feel of the perfectly smooth skin. No bumps or wrinkles or moles. Just perfect, flawless skin. Her arms are flawless too. No gross hair, no dry, flaky elbow skin...no small, fine, thin, red scars crisscrossing up and down her skin. Her breasts are round and high, they don’t sag at all. Her eyebrows are shaped perfectly too. High arched and smooth. She sits up and slowly opens her eyes. She leans against the back of the tub, her legs drawn up and pressing together. She watches as water droplets slide down her skin. She watches as the droplets trickle in between the cellulite on her thighs. Her skin looks pale and clammy under the water. She rubs the water from her body, ruffling the fine, dark hairs on her arms. Fingers trail over moles on her shoulders and chest, over stretch marks on her breasts, over the small folds of fat at her armpits. She cups her hands together under the water, and splashes some on her face, to wash off the face cream. She rubs the white goop off her face, then swirls her hands under the water. The cream doesn’t come off so easily. She splashes more water on her face, then rubs harder. The heels of her palm dig into her skin. She rubs harder, trying to wash the cream off. The face cream starts dripping onto her chest and legs. Her movements get more frantic, the water starts getting choppy, splashing against the side of the tub. She has to wash away the face cream. She has to wash away the old skin. She has to wash away the dirt. She has to wash away the oil. Wash away her acne. Wash away her wrinkles. Wash away her moles. Wash away her cellulite. Wash away her scars. Wash away her tiny hairs. Wash away the fat. The name calling. The teasing. The lonely nights. The tears. The screams. The pain. She rubs and rubs and rubs, until her skin becomes red and raw and she is crying but she doesn’t know it and the water has become cold but she doesn’t know it and she doesn’t know why she’s still rubbing or what she’s trying to wash away but she is afraid to stop because she knows she can’t stop until she’s finally clean until her skin is flawless and her arms are hairless and her moles are removed and her stomach is flat and her stretch marks are faded. But they aren’t. So she keeps washing. Because she has to wash it all away. Until she’s flawless. Until she’s perfect.