you say I'm supposed to be
not like this.
I'm supposed to be
clean.
like you.

your skin slides off your
porcelain bones,
from soaking in the bleach
you have for dinner every night.
your breath consists of
rubbing alcohol and the
plastic covering your mother's sofa.
your insides are curled up and
tired of being dipped in
disinfectant every morning.
that is how you want me to be.
if I am supposed to be clean,
then sterilize me.

run my fingertips over
a flame.
make me into one of
the necklaces you twist
around your spine.
full of all the things
you try to scrape off
your tongue.
a locket full of nothing
but shame.
shave my head and
burn my hair.
take a steel brush
to my teeth.
cut off every freckle and
cauterize the wounds.
force the clean down my throat
every night for dinner
until I am sick with it
every morning.
until I look like how your
insides feel.
it was always
cleanliness above loveliness.
nothing matters more than
being clean.
not to you.
not even me.