By Shivangi Awasthi
I thought I could get my hands dirty and wash them away.
Played in the grounds, since when was I ever afraid?
Of the dirty, dirty dirt,
A slut or a flirt?
Give me a second, I’m finding the right soap.
Turn the tap on, I’ll wash it away.
I’ll be clean and not impure.
But wait.
What have I become?
I like, maybe love, the smell,
Of dirty, dirty dirt.
It reminds me of home.
A clean girl is, anyway, just for show.