Resurfacing

The silk snagged on my heel—a sharp,

mean sound like a zipper breaking.

It’s a borrowed dress, expensive and soft,

and I am the sandpaper ruining the hem.

I bought the rock at the pharmacy,

a light, porous lung of a thing

that sits on the porcelain ledge.

As the steam clears, it turns a chalky white,

dying of thirst in the middle of the bath.

I scrub until the skin is raw and pink,

trying to grind away the callouses

I built just to walk across this floor.

It doesn't make me softer.

It just makes me new enough to hurt.