My Water Bottle
There are flakes of black stuck to my palm
remnants of the bottle’s cheap paint
clinging to the rich warmth of my veins
It isn’t a surprise to find my water bottle in such a state
simply another thing of mine that’s far past its prime
Folders broken at the spine and
laces long soiled in muck
Hole ridden socks
and well-worn sweaters
A price for the stability I’ve struck
and reminders of what I must still weather
I brush my hand on my thigh
firmly as to rid the flakes from the ridges of my skin
As one would the guts of a fly
and as thoroughly as dispelling the guilt of sin
I know the flakes remain on me
But my sweatpants are black, so
I can retain my dignity to a certain degree
Copyright © Naz D.S | Year Posted 2023
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