vanity.

it can not be killed
or hidden away
it's a lover
in your dreams
and accused
demon
by day.

as i stepped into our shower for the first time following the mastectomy, i was careful not to bump or snag the drains that dangled and slithered under the flesh of my chest wall- (those magical tubes that created a tunnel uniting the mysterious inside with the out). i remember attempting to methodically sort my thoughts: focus. first things first. cleanse. shampoo. pain. lifting arms too high. careful. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) hum a little tune- that might help distract. what's for lunch? when will i be able to paint the closet door and the kitchen walls? should i condition? no it's too painful to lift my arms again. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) exfoliate. should i shave my legs? no. too much work. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) nothing left to do. and there's still hot water. looking down. rolling the edges of the bandages to test their endurance. discovering the bony rise and fall of my now visible ribs, which defiantly give form through my skin on the right side. and here's where all hell breaks loose. because in that small space of a shower a mountainous avalanche of issues break through the chorus and the gates of focus fail.

in the solitude of that shower i freaked out. overwhelmed with fear and angered by vanity and the politics that would surround this new body. i wanted to separate it all before this shower was over. but i knew that wasn't going to happen. the water was starting to get cold. i accepted that there was some self-pity in there somewhere. but one thing was for sure. at the base of the avalanche aftermath lay a truth. the truth being that my life was perhaps lengthened a bit by having a breast that carried mutating cells that had not yet spread to other parts of my body had been removed. and while my personal ideologies assist in shaping my vanity i would still have to socially reckon with my decision to not have reconstructive surgery. when i finally turned the water off i realized i was going to have to carefully dig through all of the layers. just me. my vanity. and my truth.