But here’s the secret they don't tell you: Filth is honest.
Filthy is the knowledge of it.
The Grime Underneath
I live down here, in the low tide of human experience. 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. But here’s the secret they don't tell you: Filth is honest
Give me the sticky floor of a dive bar. Give me the mystery stain on the bus seat. Give me the gummy residue on a library book cover. That’s texture. That’s history. My POV is a cracked lens