Pumice

I hold the gray and holy stone.

It grinds the skin down to the bone.

In the steam, I scrub the rough

until the floor has had enough

of the parts of me I’ve outgrown.

The water carries off the grit,

the jagged edge, the hardened bit.

The fine gray sand goes down the drain,

the water leaves a cloudy stain,

losing the shape of how I fit.