playground confessions

there is no such thing as damage control. its a different brand of denial. a soft ointment on the scars, a cheap sort of makeup that comes in one color only and washes away with time.
sitting in bed with an unfinished fairy tale, we cradle against the corners like children thinking we can fix the cracks with caked mud. left there thinking about the particular texture of wet soil, clinging to skin, smelling of rain.
Settling in places hard to reach. Hard to brush clean. Under the fingernails. Like we were digging ourselves into a muddy wall. Under the fingernails, which we paint the colors of the rainbow to avoid the shame of eternal filth. Of perfection giving in to scratches that scar with ocean water. and ocean water only.
Under the fingernails. despite an hour's worth of a hot shower, imagining the steady flow of memories down the drain. Imagining the scenes etched on my pupils breaking free like overgrown hair.
Under the fingernails, switching filth as you switch songs, switching faiths as if suddenly it had a right to dirty my soul.
Under the fingernails, and the swings, behind the pillow whispering the fairy tale will never begin.