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Stains

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 
day 
      by 
           day 
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 
           for 
                something 
                                    else to make sense. 

A personalized sadness greets me there 
I think maybe 
changing 
                 my 
                       shirt will help 
But I never do. 

I wash my clothes instead, to be sure they still fit. 
I should ask myself 
if 
   I 
     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 
pools 
          on 
                fabric 
unforgiving of pigment or thread count. 

It is a sadness that cannot be washed out.

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