The Tiles

All the raw impurities dripping down my arm should disgust me. Watching everything spill out in violent bursts should leave me repulsed. My trembling fingers scraping the back of my inflamed throat, the feeling of tears mingling with sweat as they drip down my neck, even the sour taste of my own soiled flesh hitting my tongue; they all should make me feel completely and utterly revolted. And yet all I can feel is relief as I collapse onto yet another set of bathroom tiles. 

Their smooth surface acting as a cool reward for my efforts while my shallow breath fogs them over. Eyes now closed, my fingers find the grout joining two of them and I trace the worn path tenderly. As my head pounds and my stomach spasms, I roll onto my side, allowing myself to curl up against them. To find comfort in them. Exposed joints and juts of bone ache in protest at this—threatening to bruise like they always do—but I continue to ignore them. Now is the time to bask in my achievement. 

I am empty. Cleansed of the filth I devoured all by my own hand. And I have done it well. 

A part of me longs to not find pride in such things. To not find the barbaric romanticism of this whole ritual so enticing, but the sense of accomplishment is far too great. Even if it is fleeting. Once I decide to gather myself, all evidence of my work will be washed down the drain, save for a few burst blood vessels peppered onto my pallid cheeks. Each far too soft to warn what harsh reality was to come soon afterwards; the waves upon waves of sheer panic, shame, and guilt. The self-hatred that roots itself deep within my bones. Is that not what makes this all the more attractive and worthy of my admiration? 

I am not sure I will ever know the true answer to that question. For now though, I will let the tiles keep me company as I enjoy these last few moments of peace. They always understand that I have tried my very best.