A Layer of Loathing

I love my robe.

The mirrors are not steamed enough to hide my reflection when I step out of the shower.

My loose skin is covered in scars that tell a story I would rather not hear;

I quickly throw on my robe.

When all is concealed, I am comfortable.

Soft silk wraps around my cold body and I tie the ribbons until I can hardly breathe;

My lungs hate what my eyes crave.

No matter how hard I scrub, when my feet meet the carpet, one thing is painfully obvious;

I cannot seem to wash off a layer of loathing.

I love my robe, for I hate myself.