I scrubbed and scrubbed until my pores became smooth, until my flesh burned with regret. Until I felt my pores become shallow. And the oil ran off like an anointing, a closed flask. Waiting for grace to keep my heart at bay. Yet I'm still dying three days later. Wrapped in the same linen I was buried in. Like an anointing, you pressed your hand to my head. Whispered fire. Now I'm gone.