Sponge

I like washing dishes.

The touch of water, the softness of the soap and the satisfaction of cleaning a pile of the dirtiest, oiliest, grungiest plates. I'm aware that most people would pick it as the last chore to do. But I prefer it over other house chores.

I didn't know that it was weird until someone asked me why I like it and that made me realize something.

I perform best when everyone's done.

When the party is over, dishes are the last ones to be cleaned. On fast food services,  dishwashing was the least flashy role, but an excruciatingly necessary task. It was something everybody hated doing, but everybody needs. A background task.

Just like how I'm invisible to everybody else until they needed someone to clean up for them. To absorb their dirtiest secrets when no one's listening to them. To clean their wounds after breakups, family hangups, breakdowns. To wash away all their sadness because they knew I'm strong. And I can. And I'm available.

Like a sponge.

Bright and yellow. Can self-clean. A bit of water, some soap, and voila. Its ready to be used again. Just there. Completely satisfied to be together with the racks and the rugs.

But just because I am capable doesn't mean I could be used over and over again. I also wear out. I function because I know that feeling of emptiness once the lights and the music stops. I know how it feels to fight for myself and to clean up my own mess because no one else would. And most of all, I hate feeling used. It's lonely. Dirty.

I am capable because I made myself capable. I wouldn't wish anyone else to feel the exact same way even if it kills me.

So yes, I do like washing dishes.

But not the part where I finally sit at the edge of the sink, engulfed by darkness, asking why I'm the only one left.