Worn

I was in the shower.

The stone in my hand.

Pumice.

Gray.

Rough.

My heel was callused,

thickened, hard.

I wanted it gone.

I scrubbed.

Pushed harder.

The stone against my skin

made a sound like wind.

Like something being erased.

The dead skin came off

in clouds, in shreds,

and the stone got smaller

in my grip.

I pushed harder.

Wore it down.

Wore myself down.

The stone was smoothing,

losing its edges,

becoming smaller

and rounder

and less useful.

Like me.

I kept going.

Scrubbed until my heel was raw.

Until the stone was almost gone.

Until I couldn't tell

if I was trying to fix

my foot

or erase

something else.

The water ran red.

I stopped.

Looked at my heel.

Looked at the stone,

worn flat from my own pressure,

diminished by my own need

to make something disappear.

The stone was almost gone.

I was still here.

But smaller now.

Worn at the edges.