Dysphoria

She peels off her jeans

and tosses them into the hamper,

right onto her clothes from yesterday

and the day before that

and the day before that,

and so on.

A mass of yesterday's stink

clinging to her self.

She tells herself she'll wash them tomorrow,

only to add another layer of grime

before she climbs into bed

and pulls the blanket over her head,

counting the bruises on her skin

twelve times

until her eyes can't look anymore.