Stain

Coffee spilled slow,

a deep maroon bloom

spreading across pale cotton

like a bruise I can’t scrub out.

Edges darken where the fabric wrinkles,

pulls tight around the stain,

like blood settling beneath skin,

a mess no clean will touch.

I trace the shape with a finger,

watch it soak in, grow.

The morning’s clumsy mark

that drags my mood down

with its slow, stubborn spread.

It’s ugly and honest,

a scar I carry folded in my shirt,

a color that won’t quit,

a bruise that wakes me every time I see it.