I turn the water hot, hotter, hottest, let the tub fill up. I let the window up to let the steam out, the cold in.
Even my baths are a contradiction.
A moth flutters from the window (inside the glass, how long has she been in here?) to the wall beside the shower head.
Small and brown and unobtrusive she tries hard to blend in with my ancient floral wallpaper.With my glasses off she mostly succeeds.
With my glasses off she mostly succeeds.
Some moths are huge, the size of hummingbirds. The size of dinosaurs. They throw themselves at lights, at people.
She is tiny and silent and easy to ignore. She is going to die inside of this house, I know. Not because I’m going to smash her, but because I can’t catch her, set her free.
She sits on the shower head and I lower myself into my scalding water, into my book about self-harm and institutionalization. About being all alone in a hard, hard, hard world.
I think about this week.
I think about tomorrow.
I think it might be nice to be tiny, tiny like a moth, hiding in a steamy bathroom, disappearing beside a shower head.
Dying quietly, unmourned, swept up like trash at the end.
The world is full of giant, loud moths. They thrash and thrash and thrash against the light, and think this makes them superior somehow. Because the bruise and they batter and they convince you in tiny little ways that their self-destructive way is the best way the ONLY way.
Why is it so wrong to be silent? Why can’t you ever win by disappearing into the wallpaper?
And why does it always end badly, no matter if you refrain from battering yourself to death trying to achieve something that isn’t real.
Tiny and silent, or large and loud, we all die in the end.
Images from pixabay.