Scrubbing at the sink

Scrubbing at the sink,

dark dirt hides stubborn beneath

cracked nails and skin.

A stubborn map of afternoons,

clotted earth dug and pressed

into the small scars of my hands.

I watch the water run,

black smudges staining white porcelain,

tiny trenches that won’t wash away.

These marks tell stories

I don’t say out loud—

reminders held just beneath the surface,

waiting to be noticed,

but never quite clean.