Dirty

On Mondays I go to the hipsters

for guidance on being casual.

I watch their red lips.  I measure

 

their indifference with a ruler. 
My mother says I’m neurotic. 

I got it from her.  She never

 

strayed from her disinfectant

wipes.  When my frontal lobes 

fused I started to wash 

my hands until they cracked. 

It felt right.  Like the time

I looked at Cody White’s

 

Chemistry final to better

understand oxidation-

reduction reactions

 

or the time I met the 

married man, loved 

the married man.

I scrubbed my skin

with bleach to make

sure my hands would bleed.