Stripped.

After long hours of longer days, stretched out upon an unending week, she's filthy and tired and weak from being strong, stripped of excitement, stripped of strength.

She hides behind her bathroom door and greets her reflection, a shadow with baggy eyes and tired bones. She gazes into her mirror to see herself the way she really felt, stripped of clothes, stripped of dignity.

She turns on the water and steps in, letting it rain over her body, washing away the dirt and ink and troubles of her life. She washes her hair and shaves her skin, stripped of filth, stripped of shame.

She falls to the floor and sits against the wall, allowing the water to cascade over her shoulders and warm her entire body. She didn't fall in shame or sickness, but in surrender, to let the water wash all of her troubles away. She closes her eyes, and finally smiles, stripped of troubles, stripped of pain.