Cleansing Fears

The scent of bleach, sharp as a knife,

scrubs away moments of tension in life.

I stood at the sink, dishwater aglow,

while you spoke of the past, of wounds that won't go.

Your voice rose above the clinking of plates,

turning our kitchen to echoes of fates.

I scrubbed at the stains of years filled with doubt,

hoping to cleanse what we couldn’t live without.

But bleach can’t wash memories, no matter how deep,

or dissolve the pain that still lingers to keep.