Stained Soul

My soul is stained, blood-red and rusty. I am dyed with Kool-Aid that was spilled on my shoes at a kindergarten birthday party. My hair is dark with the feeling of his fingers on my scalp and on my neck. The stain covering my stomach started budding when they sliced me open and re-arranged my insides. "You are sick," they said. "You are sick and we will help." I was too young to say no, too young to know that a Tide stick wouldn't fix this one. I had a stain on my middle school cheerleading top. My friend, with her tiny body and stain-covered soul dotted the spot with a bleach-tipped stick. I thanked her, but I wanted to ask, "Is there something like that for my heart? No? Maybe for my soul?" I know the answer now. I am a stained pile of laundry my mother would shake her head at and throw away. I'm not even clean enough to donate. A mosaic of living friends, dead friends, Kool-Aid, blood, sweat, and sickness is all I am. I will never look better, but I could always be worse.