I just want the stains to bleach out of my clothes.
Stains that settled in dark hues
ever so slightly
tinting the garments
so that a
glance wouldn’t raise suspicion.
Memory reminds me of stark white tshirts
freshly torn from packages new
but only years later
when I am visiting the mirror looking
A personalized sadness greets me there
I think maybe
shirt will help
But I never do.
I wash my clothes instead, to be sure they still fit.
I should ask myself
even want them to.
Dark stains still visible
they permeate every textile they touch.
Each fiber comes away from my breastbone crusted a darkened red
Residual heartbreak that
unforgiving of pigment or thread count.
It is a sadness that cannot be washed out.