Stubborn Shadow

I scrub at the shirt,

fingertips digging at the dark smear

that won’t yield,

something pressed hard into cotton’s skin.

No matter the soap,

the rub, the rinse—

a shadow clings stubborn,

a silent argument that won’t quit.

It’s not dirt. It’s a memory stretched thin,

a smear of something I can’t name,

refusing to wash away,

pressed down like regret in fabric’s weave.

I stop and stare,

the mark set deeper than the dye,

telling me not all stains bleed out,

some stay,

even when you don’t want them to.