Sticky

Sometimes I feel sticky. Like I went swimming in a pool of jell-o and haven't showered yet. Or I got caught in a massive mudfight. That kind of sticky. All-over, cakey, makes your hair stiff and your skin crumble nastiness. Only it's not my skin that's dirty, it's my soul. The places deep inside of me that I worked so hard to shelter, to guard with all of my barriers so that nobody, nothing could tromp through leaving grime in their wake.

It takes a while to wash this kind of stickiness off. Lots of scrubbing, showers, countless bars of soap. And just when you think you're clean, ready to go about your business, you find a little clump of nastiness still clinging on. But you do eventually get clean. And when you do, you're really clean. The scrubbing leaves your skin smooth and fresh, newly exfoliated. Years-old scabs become a little finer, stubborn scars wash away. The mud serves to nourish your hair, making it silky, shiny, and vibrant. The cleansing process leaves you brighter and more invigorated than before.

So I'm still smiling.