the bath soap scent from my childhood.
the one my mother
would bring home every sunday;
for me to wash but never feel clean.
it stings,
but no longer seeps into cuts like antiseptic.
it smells like sorrow,
loneliness, and pain
yet the scent on my skin doesn’t make me sad.
i think of the girl and what the girl would think of me.
how far we’ve come;
and how we share the same scent on older skin.