Rough Stone

It was there, behind the gels,

a grey lump, forgotten,

like a memory the body tells

itself to keep, though rotten.

The shower steam, a humid veil.

I picked it up, rough, dry.

A miniature mountain, pale,

beneath a cold, unblinking eye.

I pressed it hard against the heel,

that old, rough patch of skin.

A slow, dull grind, a little feel

of something finally wearing thin.

But the anxiety, a deeper grit,

won't scrub away so easy.

It settles, quiet, bit by bit,

makes the whole body queasy.

Just sits.