Seven-Eighths

Under the scarred light of a torch, she thinks about the things that hurt the most.

Maybe it's the whispers, calling for unforeseen justice. Maybe it's the super-fine lines the blade leaves on her skin. Or perhaps,it's the touch of a man who never really knew about love. 

It's a tough competition, she thinks. Pain has this habit of singing to you. And you can't shut your ears because it's already tied your arms. 

Sometimes she thinks she's imagined a fairytale life for herself. Somewhat dream-like, a little self-consumed. But then, she never asked for much. No prince. No guards. No hope. Maybe just a little song. But then, the right songs are always the hardest to find. 

She shaves her legs very slowly. The ratio of depilated hairs to seconds is about three to seventeen. The razor's very near blunt and half cracked. She uses the eighth of it that won't cut her legs to pieces. When she encounters the other seven eighths on occasion it feels like a million tiny needles on her skin. It feels good. The sting feels like the salt water sponge on her chest after their first night. She thinks of replacing the razor but there are much worse ways to be stung. Maybe.

In this fairytale life, she has zero say in just about anything. Unfortunately, this fairy has decided to give her a prince. Prince and princess. Never princess and prince. Now she's screwed.

As she washes her body, she feels more pangs. Some pangs, she thinks, shoving the washcloth under her arms, never leave. They get bloody PR in your heart and then they don't go anywhere. She masturbates briefly with the showerhead. Best not to use the pouffe string. Things like to get stuck in the worst of places. Most of the time. 

Fairytales have happy endings. She tries to fabricate an ending without the presence of a prince, which  fails pretty bad. She conjures a life with a family of cats, but it just isn't the same. Perhaps a princess. Post-modernist fairytales must have modern endings. A lesbian lifestyle isn't so uncommon now, is it?

She tries to shove too many things into the shower caddy and the liquid soap drops and cracks. She knew she shouldn't have bought the shitty glass bottle. Her head, she reflects, is like the shower caddy.

She drops onto the floor on all-fours, picks up the razor, and starts using the seven-eighths.