I woke up feeling clean.
The kind of clean you find on your teeth, after they have picked and scratched and scrubbed them to that white hue with sharp tools we are all afraid of using ourselves. The inner lining of my skin is now smooth and finally worth leaning on. I feel clean. I am sure this is what it feels like. Because to know clean you must first be friends with filthy, an acquaintance of crummy and a distance relative callous. I have known these things as they have stuck to my being before, made my insides rust and flake off in a flurry of inconceivable nightfall This I know. I know both. Today, I can perceive and receive a morning of clean, with hands visible to the valley in my own fingerprints exposed and extended, almost transparent, almost fragile, almost open, almost there. Reaching for my being Clean and clear
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Tayllor JohnsonThis is my reality as I see it in stanzas as I study Psychology, English, and French in Scotland. Archives
May 2014
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