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