Dirty Little Hands

Home was where dirty dishes masqueraded as science experiments as they multiplied in the sink. Mounds of stained, soiled clothes settled like strata over the floor, a geological record of the years. Every corner was caked in the mysterious substance that’s only found in abandoned spaces. Broken toys were tossed aside, never moved from where they fell. The kitchen floor was sticky from years of sprinkled sugar and dripped oil. The counters were a jungle of empty bread bags and cereal boxes glued together with mustard and syrup. Stains spread across the leaking ceiling, brown relics of bygone rains.

The filth was an army. It invaded us from every front. It marched over us. It trampled every shred of pride we had.

It left a hopeless devastation in its wake that rots on my skin to this very day.

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