I am not valuable. In fact, I am absolute trash- the diseased kind. You should leave immediately, or I might contaminate you like everyone else.
I am not important. I live by the gutter, waiting for a penny to fall my way just so I can pick it up from the muck and polish away the grime. Sometimes I wish I were that penny so that I could be cleansed so easily. Unfortunately, no one ever hears my prayers, or my life would’ve ended much sooner.
I am not worthy. Of anything, much less love or comfort. I belong where I am, but somehow knowing that the world is fair doesn’t help me sleep any better. I never sleep; deep shadows ring my eyes like smudged mascara. Like bruises. But those bruises faded a long time ago.
I am not clean. My skin is stained by probing fingers and invasive appendages; by crusted blood and crude words; by bruises black as the eyes that stared at my undeveloped chest and strangled words that never quite escaped my lips. No matter how much I scrub this ugly flesh, I can’t quite scour away the memory of grasping hands and the cowardice that kept my lips closed.
I am not good. For anything, much less help and acceptance. When my parents knew, they screamed and disowned me, because how could their daughter make such a rude allegation about her brother. Incest was illegal; how could she have accepted him in her bed?
I am not alive. I exist, a shadow of myself, waiting for my disease to rot my flesh and melt my bones until I become one with the swirling heap of muck and garbage that is my home. Until my outside reflects my inside. I do not exist- I just am. A fixture of the world that busy eyes skim past on their way to work. No one cares about me- or should they. I am a dirty girl, both inside and out.
You should leave, before you become dirty too. My brother is on his way to work now, and I am a pit stop, in this alley by the trash.