I think I have almost succeeded in washing the feeling of you from my hands 

Nerve cells that I have disintegrated through religious rituals of scalding hot water and a bar of soap 

Cleaning every memory of you that is stained into the crevices and folds of my palms

My raw red hands crack from dead skin that peels and stays in my bathroom sink 

I stare 

I finally turn the cold silver handle to rinse it all away 


It’s taking me more time to scrub the taste of you from my lips 

I gaze into the mirror watching each of the bristles of my toothbrush aggressively moving back and

forth on my soft pink mouth until 

For the seventh time this week

Blood spills into the sink and it stains the white porcelain 

I consider cleaning it


But a marble pattern of the last remnants of you is reassuring to stare down at 

So long as I am purging those remains from me

I do not care where they go 


I do not know how to cleanse you from my eyes

How can I rid them of images that are burned under the folds of my lids 

I see you each time they close 


I do not know how to cleanse you from my ears 

Which still ring with false promises and fictitious professions of love 

I hear you just as much in silence as I do in loud noise 


My solace is that I don’t need to cleanse you from my heart 

A place that is constructed and abundant with purity 

Your filth has come close

And I can’t lie when I say it has even touched  

But never did it permeate through the chambers 

Or pollute my bloodstream 

I won’t spend my life forcing my hands through my chest to drown the organ in water 

My heart is not tainted by you 

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