Wash(ing)

It felt as though the agony was etched or stuffed under my skin.
I had to wash it.
Over and over again.
And again.
Until it left me.
Completely.

The skin left.
Sometimes the blood left.
But never the agony.

---

Shiksha Dheda is a South African of Indian descent. She uses writing to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes. Her debut poetry collection, Washed Away, is forthcoming with Alien Buddha Press.

She rambles annoyingly on at Twitter: @ShikshaWrites.