What Wears

The pumice stone is worn smooth

from use—mine and others before me.

The porous gray surface

slick from friction,

from all the skin

it's rubbed away.

My feet were rough.

I ignored them for months,

let them harden into

calluses and cracks,

let them become something

my body was protecting itself with,

something I earned

by walking.

One night I soaked them

and started scraping.

The dead skin came away in sheets,

white and papery,

like I was erasing

parts of myself

that had grown too thick

to feel anything.

The pumice got smoother.

I got softer.

Layer by layer,

the stone wore itself down

on my feet

and my feet wore themselves smooth

against the stone.

By the end,

I didn't recognize the bottom of my body.

New skin. Raw. Pink.

Like I'd been born again

from the feet up,

like the pumice had scraped away

not just the calluses

but some part of me

I didn't know I needed to lose.

The stone sits in the shower now,

smoother than before,

waiting to wear something else

down.