Bleaching
the shirts
stark-white until they hold
your skeleton
like a vice is supposed to.

Feeling pain
and a grip of hope
like biting your fingernails
to the cuticles,
only to see the soft
skin-like crescent underneath your teeth.

Today
in church,
the preacher talked
about God.

God and his ability
to hammer your soul
to it's infinite potential.

Able to hammer you flat
and tired
until he could mould you.

He talked about a clean house,
and I thought about my ***** shirts.

He talked about the pleasure
of the crucifixion,
and I thought about
biting my fingernails too hard
and too often.