Abrasive

I felt the sheet snag on the back of my heel,

a jagged reminder of the way that I feel.

So I sat on the edge of the tub in the dark

to sand down the skin and leave a raw mark.

I dragged the gray stone in a circular grind,

trying to leave all the rough parts behind.

But the pumice is heavy and pitted and cold,

scraping at layers that are getting too old.

Fine gray dust settles deep in the mat,

like the ash from a fire where a dead man once sat.

I’m rubbing until the whole surface turns pink,

watching my own self dissolve in the sink.