Rubbed Down

This stone, in my palm, grey,

a thousand tiny mouths.

I rub it, and the rough bits fray,

it takes what it allows.

My heel, so thick, it grinds it flat.

A fine dust falls, a pale release.

Like all the edges, just like that,

worn down, to find a sort of peace.

Or numbness. Hard to tell the two.

The grit gets everywhere, you see.

It does its job, sees you right through,

and leaves less left of you, of me.

The skin beneath, it's baby-soft,

but something's lost, a harder core.

The careful strength that held aloft

the old self, standing at the door.