Worn Through

Under the sink, next to the drain cleaner,

the pumice stone I bought two years ago.

The cord is still attached, bright blue,

the plastic loop for hanging,

for using,

for the person I thought I'd be.

It's light. Almost nothing. Gray and porous

like something that should have dissolved by now.

I held it in my palm.

The rough side is rougher from the one time I used it,

the smooth side still textured from the factory.

It's not broken. It just stopped being necessary.

Somewhere between then and now

I decided my feet didn't matter,

or I was too tired to scrub them down to softness,

or I stopped believing that small acts of care

added up to anything at all.

The cord catches on my finger as I pull it out.

That loop was supposed to make it easy to grab,

to remember, to reach for the thing

that was supposed to keep me from falling apart

at the edges.

I could use it now. My heels are cracked,

hard as calluses on the soul, thick with neglect.

But instead I put it back,

move it slightly to the left,

and leave it there

like a reminder of the person

I used to think I'd maintain.

The cord will probably get tangled again,

twisted around the bottles of things

I also bought with good intentions.

The plastic will get brittle. It will eventually break.

And then I won't even have the option of using it,

won't even have to make the decision

to let myself go rough.