it starts with skin,
strip me bare, layer by layer as
fingers peeling an orange, dig into the flesh,
the blood, the bone.
i am spilled pulp
surrounded by a sun that rots it’s worshippers
and a god that never stops looking.
so leak me forward,
squeeze me through,
wring me out like dish rags drawn in muddy waters.
there will be nothing dirty here.
you can touch me like something sanctified
but i am fruit flesh scoured in flies.
no skin here.
threading through muscle,
through blood, through the bone.
god has mercy on the washed.
tomorrow i will stand under a rain
and walk away clean.