I Hate My Shower

A Cliché for Tears

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I hate my shower.

Every single time I go in there, it reminds me of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve lost, and the things I’ll never become.

It’s not just the water that won’t stop dripping in that slow, mocking rhythm, or the cracked tiles that seem to mirror every broken piece of my life. It’s the stillness. The boxy, suffocating closeness that amplifies everything I try to push down.

It’s like my body knows this is the only place I can fall apart. The only place where no one sees me, where no one asks questions, and where I don’t have to pretend.

I lean against the wall, and the tears come so easily. I don’t even fight them anymore. It’s stupid really. Crying in the shower. It’s such a cliché. But there’s something about water mixing with tears, that makes it all feel less real… less shameful.

Most times, I tell myself to stop. To get in, do what I need to do, and get out like anyone else. But I don’t. I can’t. Because my shower is the only place where I can’t control or hold my thoughts together. It’s the only place where I can break without anyone hearing the cracks, where I can cry for no reason and every reason all at once.