Good Enough

And I stood there. With the shower-head pressed to my chest. The water no longer warm. And I stood there, with my hair still dry, pressed against the wall, feeling the icy tile greedily consuming the warmth of my back, cold water pouring down my limbs, mirroring the still-glistening trails that tears had traced down my face.

And they tell me that they would kill to have this. No, no they wouldn't. You haven't been me until you've stood in that shower run cold, groveling for an answer to questions unknown posed in words unspoken about feelings incomprehensible. You've never really known what it is to be me until you've all but prayed for one reason good enough. Knowing full well it doesn't exist.

It never seems to really strike people that everything I have, I am, I do...I got somehow. I paid a price for it. I still do. Because this...this...this isn't pretty. It's not glamorous or stunning or dramatic. It's pathetic. And I know it. But this is what I get. This is what I am. Nothing more, nothing less.

Somehow I'm alright with that. I'm alright with it because it doesn't mean anything. Because it leaves me where I've been all my life, standing in that shower with the water run cold, waiting for one reason that's good enough. It doesn't even need to be good. It just needs to be good enough. Just enough that it outweighs the consequences of failure. Just enough that I have the excuse I need.

It wouldn't take much. Not anymore. And unfortunately, I know that. So I stand there, wishing that maybe if the water gets cold enough, maybe if I lose enough sensation, maybe if I just wait it out...