With a wet washcloth you wash your face.
Then the pure white cloth is forever stained,
and you foolishly believe your face is clean.
In the mirror you primp, and you preen,
but just because salt revives the skin
doesn’t make it blemish free.
Every night when you remove the base,
you stare hard and cold at the path you’ve traced;
squeezing the washcloth, in your hand restrained.
And every morning you conceal your sin.
And it works,
‘cause it does hide the darkness within.
And every night,
with a wet washcloth you wash your face.
Photograph made available by Brian Patrick Tagalong via Unsplash.