Come Clean

I stand here at the sink and try to scrub the filth from my hands. I rub the cloth into my hands over and over again until the skin is raw and red. It’s still there. I want it to go away, the dirt, the stench, but it only dries up the flesh and makes it cracked and ugly. I try and try to scrape away the stains until I bleed. But the blood doesn’t make it disappear. It mingles with the grime until my hands turn black and I look at them and they’re not mine. They don’t belong to me. I’m not that foul. I am pure, I am clean. This is somebody else’s dirt, this is somebody else’s problem. Don’t make me clean in the crevices and chafe my pure white flesh until it’s pink and burned. Don’t make me wipe the mud from someone else’s hands. I am too busy with the dirt beneath my feet.