I can't stop cleaning
My knuckles are dry
Red
Rivers of disinfectant fill the parched cracks of my skin
A storm in a gorge
There's too much dust
A sandstorm
I swipe it away
It comes back!
Dark grey tufts of storm clouds
That I, with my
Mighty Hand
Brush away
Insignificant

But it's not nothing
I know what it is

I tear the filled pages
Out of my notebook
Cast them away
They're impure
Scribbled on
Clean white pages are all I need
The purity of sacred bleach

Smell the chemicals, the cleanliness
Destroy the dust, keep order
Tear the paper, fall like rain

It's never nothing
I know what it is