Clean

Dia Bhojwani

​
 

it is the fourth of september 

and i am beyond redemption.

 the bedroom so messy my mother 

can’t marie kondo her way out.

 the dishes stacked like the 

tower of babel, the only 

comprehensible language the 

scarlet slick of pasta sauce. 

 

i scrape dirty wax out 

of peach scented candles 

and shut all the dollhouse doors. 

i organise my meds by colour and 

name my saints under my breath, 

a cough-syrup heavy prayer. 

fluvoxamine. melatonin. concerta. 

 

i taste the knife’s edge 

pleasure of being unbearable.

the sweetness of week old 

sweat snarled into the 

grey down of my sweatshirt. 

 

i miss being clean.

i want to get off the couch 

and wash my hair, tender fingers 

unknitting my knots in warm water.

 

so i wash myself and then the dishes. 

i put self pity away with the laundry.

it is the fourth of september 

and I am still fixable.