I don’t need things
sanitary, I just need them
clean.

I need them blank
and malleable and empty—  
bare
and impenetrable and deterring:
the cold walls of a cloroxed surface
the wide base of a lysoled space.

Spattered crumbs across a kitchen counter can be
brushed off. Calcified toothpaste around the bathroom sink can be
scrubbed away. Spilled decisions and the inability to make them—
a cocktail of Hennessy and incidental encounters— can be.

Can be
ignored, and covered up, and forgotten.
Can be
pushed aside and shoved away and misremembered.
Can be
obscured and omitted and lied about
—sanitary, but never clean.

I cannot wash my hands of his sweat.
I cannot gargle away his taste.
I cannot comb out his fingernails.

I may be sanitary, but I will never feel clean.