Cleaning Day

She cleans herself up nice
and though she's barely twenty
she amply entertains beyond her years
over coffee and under sheets
but never in her own home

for no sane person could excuse
the piles of shit-stained clothing
creeping along nicotine-yellow walls
littered on a floor
so layered with dirt
the soles of her feet are always black

or her once-beautiful balcony overlooking the willow trees
uninhabitable now
with weeks-old garbage and
the sunbaked smell of rot

or the dirty dishes
caked with old cooking
overwhelming the sink, tempting the flies
who've made a home with her
in her sweaty apartment in the alphabets

the flies
those six-legged scavengers
are the only ones who'd accept her
and she desperately wants to be loved
so she lets them whirr in her company
though she hates the sound of buzzing
and how they nip her ankles while she sleeps

the years pass and the girl grows older
not much has changed
but her youth is gone and her charm is fading
ages ago, with the best of intentions
she'd bought a broom and dustpan
but her studio stayed the same
and the flies remained

till the day came
when she died sleeping
and her winged companions picked
the plastic garbage bags,
the dishes, her clothes
and her bones

clean