I lick my finger to turn the page.
And honestly?
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. filthy pov
My POV is a cracked lens. A greasy thumbprint smeared across the camera of the world. When I look at your white tablecloth, I don’t see elegance. I see the last hundred sweaty palms that touched it before the busboy wiped it down with a rag he hasn't washed in three shifts. When I shake your hand, I’m not feeling a greeting. I’m feeling the dead skin cells flaking off your knuckles, the microscopic mites nesting in your cuticles, the ghost of the bathroom door handle you didn’t wash after. I lick my finger to turn the page