I soak my body in a tub full of hard soap and guilt,

my throat thick with dread and regret.

I wonder

will my body ever feel like home again?

Eyes closed, I prepare for another ritual.

You see, I was told that I may find joy

in the wind

on a kitchen table

or some other ordinary place.

So, here I am desperately searching

in a tub full of dull, orange water

for a reflection that has refused to float for five years,

for fresh limbs that can help me cross barren lands of self discovery,

for the stillness to listen to my past selves when they speak.

So, I place two fingers above my tongue,

a thumb below for good measure.

I sweep my mouth clean

looking for words that will help me

retrace the paths that brought me to my knees.

What follows is a deep dive into my throat

fingers pushing through fresh layers of fear and resignment

lodged between old mucus of dread and regret

as I try to know my body once more

and find the thoughts I swallowed long ago,

some intentionally,

some by accident,

some against my will.

I stretch my fingers into the deepest parts of me.

No organ is left untouched.

No sense neglected.

But, when I finally reach suppressed memories and buried selves,

they are too poisonous to fondle,

too fast to strike.

At the slightest touch of

the me-s I once knew,

the bodies I once inhabited,

the spirits I once housed,

my arms weaken.

Time moves painfully slow as my current body rejects my prodding,

regurgitating my fingers back into the present.

I am reminded, once again, that this healing journey is

endless.

at this point,

seemingly futile.

A thousand days of writing rituals

have left me with no results,

only shame soaked in fear

that I am lost forever,

that this body will always feel like a hollow trunk.

Yet, I return to this tub

every morning while the water is still orange

because

to love this body

is to give it the time the world unabashedly steals from it,

to love this body

is to launder shed skins as Asọ-Ẹbí and not rags

because they are trophies from battles fought alone,

to love this body

is to deem it worthy of patience

and endless grace no other earthly being could grant even if they tried.

Yes,

to love this body is to keep returning to the water.