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To Clean Where You Sit

Poetry By: reowine
Literary fiction



(Trigger Warning) A suffering boy tries to clean his blood off of his bed.


Submitted:Feb 3, 2013    Reads: 2    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


For one night,

His arms were steel rods, his hands were pliers.

They cauterized at the iron bands that were his wrists.

He braced a sponge from a pale of water and bleach,

Then scrubbed his bedding,

Until his metal fingers began to rust.

For one night,

He was both the machine and the factory.

He forced his equipment back and forth,

To remove orange stains.

Afterwards,

His body was a furnace;

Every part of him was alight with agony.

His hands were as coarse as his neighbors.

He slumped over like a fallen branch,

He slept with the ammonia scented dirt,

The sponge lied next to him on the floor

Like an obedient dog that knew everything.

The next morning,

The beginning of a school day.

He dumped out the remnants of his night.

His eyes floated just above hell,

As a nebulous cloud of darkness boiled below them.





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