You Consider me Dirty


It’s just a word, right?

There’s no hidden meaning, no alternate agenda, you don’t smirk when you say it… Right?

Maybe you didn’t even form the word with your tongue, maybe it’s that look in your eyes, the one that scrolls from my feet to my crown. Dirty. 

Am I then? I feel it in the way you say my name, though you promise time and again that there is nothing wrong with me. Each breath I take and each gulp of air I swallow will find its way back into the atmosphere. Dirty.

How is it that the hand which hands me the bottle of pills can seem so cold. Perhaps it’s the way the little white capsules seem to suck the darkness right away, but before they enter my system, your face only says. Dirty.

I want nothing more than to scream at the days and nights when you murmur and cradle me like a babe, wringing my lungs tight with whispers and gentle words. They’re words of comfort and words of understanding, yet they only seem to stand in the way of you seeing how it hurts. Dirty.

I am it only when you tell me my faults make me beautiful but you can no longer get close enough to see how they’re apart of me. Your words remain the same but there’s this cluster of air between us where my dirty breath clouds and your smiles grow fainter until they don’t belong to me anymore. Dirty.

I am it only if you promise the world and the world is nothing but a text or a call and they’re always the same. The words that say I’m not broken, the voice that whispers how perfect I am, yet cannot stand within five feet of me because I’m Dirty.

Aren’t I.


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