by Marie McKay
My feet on the cold tiles are making me shiver. I am washing with my eyes closed; my body feeling like a dirty sink.
My reluctant hands move over clumsy, awkward shapes that could break into pieces to lie fierce and sharp beneath murky waters.
A lair. Layer. Liar. Skeletons beneath my skeleton.
But I am already shattered; fissures screaming distress signals across my flesh: semaphore flagged up on skin.
With fingertips I read the clutter; it tells me I am faulty and makes me nauseous.
Like always I keep my eyes closed, until I am dried and dressed.
Top photo cred Pepe Reyes, unsplash.com
Marie McKay lives in Scotland with her husband and four kids. She was an English teacher before becoming a carer for her disabled daughter. She has had stories published in various magazines including, 100 word story, Bending Genres and Literary Orphans.