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.