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You walk through the world trying to stay clean. You hold your breath near dumpsters. You use a paper towel to touch the gas pump.
It’s the only way to live without going crazy.
My POV is a cracked lens. A greasy thumbprint smeared across the camera of the world. When I look at your white tablecloth, I don’t see elegance. I see the last hundred sweaty palms that touched it before the busboy wiped it down with a rag he hasn't washed in three shifts. When I shake your hand, I’m not feeling a greeting. I’m feeling the dead skin cells flaking off your knuckles, the microscopic mites nesting in your cuticles, the ghost of the bathroom door handle you didn’t wash after.
The Grime Underneath
I lick my finger to turn the page.
I live down here, in the low tide of human experience.
You walk through the world trying to stay clean. You hold your breath near dumpsters. You use a paper towel to touch the gas pump.
It’s the only way to live without going crazy.
My POV is a cracked lens. A greasy thumbprint smeared across the camera of the world. When I look at your white tablecloth, I don’t see elegance. I see the last hundred sweaty palms that touched it before the busboy wiped it down with a rag he hasn't washed in three shifts. When I shake your hand, I’m not feeling a greeting. I’m feeling the dead skin cells flaking off your knuckles, the microscopic mites nesting in your cuticles, the ghost of the bathroom door handle you didn’t wash after.
The Grime Underneath
I lick my finger to turn the page.
I live down here, in the low tide of human experience.