I wish I were a little bar of soap. Not the song. I wish I were a little bar of soap. Stop the singing.
It’s rather self destructive to wish to be a bar of soap. A bar of soap only gets smaller before it ceases to be. A bar of soap first loses its square feel, then becomes round and fitted to the palm. But as soon as it fits comfortably it changes again, only to diminish in size, which requires you to use more of it and it becomes smaller even faster.
It’s rather self assuring to wish to be a bar of soap. A bar of soap has a purpose, a singular purpose, and it fills that purpose with each use. It is always soap. It will always clean. You can tell soap not to clean the dirt from between your fingers and toes, off the top of your nose, and leave you smelling like a dried out old rose, but it still will. You can tell the soap the dirt must stay, but it will take it away.
Eventually the bar of soap will dissolve into nothing. What once was will be no more, but the effects of that bar of soap will remain. The sickless days and the unsticky door knobs are evidence of soap’s lasting, good deeds.
Not to mention I could jump into a certain mouth and clean it out a little, for fucks sake.