The Last Scrub

After scrubbing the counters till my hands burned,

the smell of bleach hung in the air,

a bitter reminder of all I’ve learned,

cleaning stains that cling, an unseen snare.

I spilled coffee earlier, bright and bold,

it splattered wide like a laugh gone wrong,

tried to wash it away, but the stains take hold,

and bleach, sharp as memories, lingers long.

I caught a glimpse of my own tired face,

reflected in bottles with labels worn thin,

a humorless jest in this endless race,

as if scrubbing could rid me of where I've been.