Tiny Droplets on the Bathroom Mirror.

Tiny Droplets on the Bathroom Mirror.

The creases of the skin, red and white, plucked at the corners of the thumb like a wounded soldier. The little toenail is dry and bruised-like a marquina black marble that rolled on the sand for decades. When the water ripples gently down the curves of the skin, the irritation is eerily familiar. Perhaps, in the afterlife, God will clutch onto me, and when I awake, I will hop in the fields like a feline. I often wish to be bathed like a newborn, slowly blinking on the cusp of an embrace, near the water that is pure, and I stay dubiously in the arms of some kind of organic warmth that is yet undiscovered.