gone
a sink full of dishes
allowed to pile up
until the mountain is precarious
and You are overwhelming.
wrinkled fingers, red skin – scrubbing.
i’m trying to scrub my mind
clean of those things i
should’ve could’ve said.
“shiny and brand new,
just got it,” i’ll say.
i hear Your voice in the soft folding of my
dirty yellow bath towels
that usually lay piled on my floor.
what are You trying to say?
but towels can only whisper.
mop bucket of murky water,
gray with dust and sparkling
with remnants of the purple glitter
that just won’t go away
no matter how hard i scrub.
i can’t be shiny and new
and i’m bleeding.
there’s a speck on my cheek
and there You are wiping it away.
pull the plug
and watch as it swirls,
rinsed away
and away and away.