Spring cleaning

The memories are a tattered burgundy bustle dress--spotted with semen, hard with blood, and salty with my mother's false tears.

I'd like to wash it, make it pure and clean and whole again, fragrant glossy silk on a naked yearning back.

Every time I try, however, the lovely whitish sink water turns into an infinitely open sea. Overtaken by the undertow, I sink and lose the sky.

Somehow, though, I always survive. Gasping lungs become thriving gills. Cutting scars turn into bedframe bruises, then into a sensor hidden in my hand. A bad thought comes, I squeeze that hand, and the point goes into my palm, a light, reassuring prick. I'm still here. And now, tender little CB rings of potential infection. I don't even need to do anything; they hurt me with my every move, creating precious little endorphins to ride on. I obsessively clean them, cherishing the bite of the orange soap. Pour it on. Lather it up. Rotate it a little. Then a lot. Get that Dial way in there. All the way to the ball now. That's it. Now reverse. Feel the burn.

Feel the clean.