Sponge.

The filth is like a layer

a film on my skin

thin  enough that I can move.

I breathe in their lies

the film thickens.

I become them.

Encased with an identity I do not own

I try to “find myself”

but how can I find someone who is dead

and what will I do with the corpse?

I am like a sponge

absorbing you

absorbing them.

How can a sponge be a sponge

when it is sick with suds?

Squeeze me

I will bleed their soap

their water

my body has changed

to fit those around me

filled with their dirt

and all of my own.

Scrub me on the pavement

rid me of this lie

wash me clean and set me to dry

I want to be pure again.

Of course a sponge is never clean for long

and soon I will be full again

full of everything I’m dying from

but as often as I am dirty

is as often as I am washed clean.

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