A hostel.
A bathroom just used.
Walking into a bathroom just used is enslaving. The charisma of the other person has not left the bathroom. It’s the smell. It’s the soap. The smell that the other identifies with. Reminds me of warmth forgotten. I can escape it. As I take the centre stage of the bathroom, there is emancipation. I take more space in the other’s body. I fill his body now. One of those desires while making love, to be inside the lover’s skin. A desire to be Buried. Accomplished in a bathroom just used.
Alone, I liberate his insides from this binary world. There is my rebellion. I come in touch with my body that I rebel against. I’ve to confront the thousand lies I’ve told myself, of loving it. There is dysphoria. I don’t know how a shower treats others. Do they confess here? Masturbate to blasphemy? I can only judge from what I’ve learnt about it. This way, a bath is more subjective(?). I remind myself of the word personal. It confuses me when I see people bath in streams, rivers or together in a private room. I cannot imagine myself doing that. I can barely sum up the courage to look below my neck. I confront the lies I tell myself. This is the moment, I reflect on myself. To remove my clothes and walk into a river or another person’s vision feels rebellious. A rebellion to a world that subtly reminds me of my flaws and imperfections. A web that tells me that I’m not queer enough. To ads that tell me I am beautiful but will never have people like me in it. People who cannot afford the perfect face-cream or the perfect body. I despise the capitalist predator that has broken self love into commodities. But I fall prey for it.
Self love? How can I force my mind into loving a body that it cannot relate to. A mind that fails to find space in its vessel. It’s a terrible and violent act.
I search for a souvenir on the window panes. Perhaps he forgot the ring that his lover gifted him. If found, I will happily throw it out through the window into an endless doom of pine forest. That will be triumphant. Cis heterosexual women with no effort being entitled to identity and their love relationships makes me envious. Stop asking me for correctness. I’m confessing. I’m not the in ‘between’. I shout. Nobody listens. Bathroom and closed walls.
I search for symbolism. To end the dysphoria and get done with the shower. As a civilisation, we have never failed to look for symbolism in nature, to justify our actions or miseries. Anthropomorphic.
A distant landfill burns its waste and feeds on the forest. The smoke blurred this violent act. Dysphoria feasting on my youth. Hot water cleanses my skin and prepares me for winter. Longer nights. Nocturnal lovers.
