Washing Up

It is an odd phenomenon, my habit of letting the dishes get so very dirty. They do get so disgustingly rotten; the very smell can be overwhelming. And then, painfully, stiffly, I wash them one by one, looking over each growth and studying each color of the mold unwillingly. I am deeply interested, deeply repulsed, by their wounds of old food playing along the edges of their whiteness. Their very misery seems to both disturb and obsess me. I cry for them as I wash, they seem starved of attention, starved of rights, abandoned and alone.

And then I clean them, wash them, shine them, one by one until they are right again. Until they are just dishes once more. They aren't suffering beings - just things to eat off of. I lose them as friends, and gain utensils.

They were my companions, for while in my state of misery and pain. They were there with me, keeping me company, crying too. But I could save them, and eventually I had to. I had to lift them above myself into a world I cannot reach. I couldn't let them go on and disintegrate in a mess of destructive and living bacteria. I had the power to save them as I cannot save myself. I'm starving, too. Choking on my abandoned, messy self. But there is noone with a helpful sponge and towel.