the grime reflects light,
blanched and unclean.
the dirt needs
a soft sweep.
mop away the impurities-
don't they disgust?-
but soap can't wash
them from us.

the bath water turns milky
and green like the aura
of the ***** girl
drowning in flora
to become a soft flower.
clean and bleached,
she isn't as good as the others.

the facade is gone
and a demon shone.
it's in the skin
and inhabits the bone.

blood red flesh
cuts open the green-
the prettiest purification
you've ever seen-
and tries to make the thing clean;
the mirrors harsh light
reflects it- not quite right-
to the viewers foolish eye.

and so it has been left
to writhe
like a snake in a bowl.
lonely, lonely, still.
not like the other seeds
that will grow and plant
themselves in an elegant dance.