Clean

The last time I was clean was at birth, Entangled in my mother's arms, her dirt all over me will have been the cleanest I'd ever be. And now, even with soap running down my skin in streaks and water rinsing it off of me, my exterior may be polished but inside I am tainted. I am rusting, cracking, chipping. I will come to accept that my exterior is porcelain, fragile and on the brink of destruction, and I will lay on the green glass in the same position I was in when I was born all those years ago; the last time I was clean. And I will let my porcelain chip and break off, until I am nothing but the tainted emptiness inside of me, and my pieces will be enveloped by the earth under me. Seeping, swallowing, rusting, cracking, chipping and never again clean.