Maintenance

Two in the morning and my heels are splitting.

I reach for the tin.

It's the same one from two years ago,

nearly empty now,

the edges dried out.

I have to dig the greasy stuff out with my fingernail.

This is maintenance.

This is what it takes to keep going—

the small jars, the creams,

the repetitive act of fixing yourself

in the dark when no one is watching.

The smell is medicinal and tired.

It smells like every other time I've done this,

like every 2 AM when something was cracking,

when something needed attention,

when I had to stop what I was doing

and take care of the small disasters.

My hands are rough.

The cracks go deep sometimes.

But I keep the tin.

I keep reaching for it.

I keep rubbing the greasy stuff in,

rubbing it in

until my heels don't hurt so much.