What Remains

The tin is old, the label half-peeled away,

the contents sitting on the shelf

like something that won't heal today.

I smooth it on. It doesn't sink or spread.

It just sits there, thick and wrong,

a petroleum film where I need to be fed.

This is what people use for wounds.

This is what you apply and wait for something to change.

But it doesn't work. It just accumulates in rounds.

The smell is chemical and dull,

the kind of smell that reminds you

of being small.

I wipe it off. It doesn't come clean.

It smears across my sleeve,

the glossiest thing I've ever seen.

There are better things for chapped lips.

Balms that actually absorb.

But this is what's here, this is what drips.

So I keep using it anyway,

keep rubbing it on,

keep waiting for the day

when it finally does what it's supposed to do

instead of just sitting there thick,

instead of this trick

of looking like help but offering nothing true.