I have always considered
Myelf a dead thing.
Or at least in some form,
Close to my expiration.

I don't feel this way to be
Edgy or draw attentions
To my sufferings,
I just feel it.

I feel a lot of things though,
Kind of like the washing
Machines in laundry mats:
Stagnant and worn but with purpose;

Used soley to cleanse other
People of their miseries
And add another layer of
Decay in my basin.

But meeting you was like,
The mechanic coming right before
The final stretch, before all
Of my insides finally gave out.

Mending the wires and veins
So frayed from use with only
Your softness, your fingers
Caressing away years of age

To see fresh metal underneath.
You cleaned the cogs and bones
Of their filth and reminded me
That I am not broken.

And though I could think
Of nothing better to equate
The effect you have on me
To anything other than a

Broken washing machine,
Know that you played a part
In keeping me going for
A little while longer.