When I look at a beautiful woman, I don’t see her gloss. I see the sebum clogging her pores. I wonder if the shine on her cheek is highlighter or the natural grease of a long day. I wonder if her perfect ponytail is hiding a patch of psoriasis. And I love her more for it. Because the alternative—the plastic, airbrushed, sterile version of life—is a horror movie.
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. filthy pov
The Grime Underneath
But here’s the secret they don't tell you: Filth is honest. When I look at a beautiful woman, I don’t see her gloss
Because once you accept the filth—once you make it your point of view—you realize you were never above it anyway. You were just pretending. I wonder if her perfect ponytail is hiding
Filthy is the knowledge of it.