Washing, But Still Dirty.

i wash my body, my hair, my face. because i know what litters my mind. that im perverted, and lazy. that i gossip too much, using beauty for destruction. manipulating those around me, to do what i say, because i want it. i wash my clothes, because those smells cant be mine. i shouldnt be able to recognize drugs and cologne. i shouldnt have to cry, and try to sort out what has happened. i brush my teeth, and crawl into bed, because thats what they do in stories, thats what the innocent do. i try not to cry into my pillow, because i know it will be soggy and wet and cold. i open the window to let fresh air in, but the room in which i sleep is still stocked, with smoke, and music, and tears, and sick laughter. nothing could wash away my sins, of what i have done. no tears, no soap, no blood of the lamb. i refuse to be washed in holy water, jesus' tears, a churches hypocricy. i refuse to do anything else so fake.