tw: mentions of hospitals, body image

 

is to say that when I look into the mirror, I must

        stop flinching. Underneath these fluorescent lights, my thoughts

are being chased away by the smell of hospital disinfectant and I can taste it

at the tip of my tongue. Some days like today,

        I want to pour it down my skin to rinse me clean, leaving me

gleaming like the blade of a knife. Photos are now a crime;

        how dare you show me my pale pallor. The nurses in their scrubs. My hollowed-

out bones. Now, my legs are no longer legs. Instead, they are jelly so

I go home in a wheelchair like a corpse. Sunlight is

a revelation and I bask in it like I was born yesterday. Except

​

                        in some ways, I was. In this new person,

I spend my hours looking backwards and down, always

        avoiding the windows and mirrors and glasses. Tell me,

how many times must I look at myself before I stop wincing?