When I look at a beautiful woman, I don’t see her gloss. I see the sebum clogging her pores. I wonder if the shine on her cheek is highlighter or the natural grease of a long day. I wonder if her perfect ponytail is hiding a patch of psoriasis. And I love her more for it. Because the alternative—the plastic, airbrushed, sterile version of life—is a horror movie.
My apartment smells like victory—if victory is stale beer soaked into carpet and the metallic tang of a radiator leaking rust. I don’t own a sponge. I own a crusted-over dish brush that I use for everything: scrubbing the bathtub ring, scraping the burnt eggs off the pan, and occasionally scratching my back. The line between clean and dirty died in this apartment six years ago, and I didn't go to the funeral. filthy pov
I lick my finger to turn the page.
You walk through the world trying to stay clean. You hold your breath near dumpsters. You use a paper towel to touch the gas pump. When I look at a beautiful woman, I don’t see her gloss
Filthy is the knowledge of it.
But here’s the secret they don't tell you: Filth is honest. I wonder if her perfect ponytail is hiding