Abrasive

It skittered across the porcelain,

a hollow scrape that set my teeth on edge.

A bit of mountain, light and thin,

sitting on the narrow window ledge.

Volcanic foam, frozen and gray,

built to grind the rough parts of me small.

I use it to sand the week away

until there’s nothing left to feel at all.

The pores are choked with a wet slurry,

a paste of soap and bits of dead skin.

There isn't any reason to hurry

to let the outside world back in.