The scars on my wrist have faded but the intent remains the same, in theory, not in practice. I bury my body in handfuls of dirt that was never good for growing, that would never sustain life.

You always ask if I'm okay but it's earth that crumbles past my lips instead of words so I shake my head and climb out of my grave as if it never even happened, and still you remain under my nails, in every bump and bend of my body.

I showered for three hours yesterday, my wrinkled fingers wiped steam from the mirror to reveal a dirt stained face that will never be clean of you.