Two Weeks

The hamper is overflowing on the floor,

clothes piling over the rim,

a sock on the hardwood,

the smell of worn fabric rising—

and I've been avoiding this

for two weeks now,

closing the closet door,

pretending I don't see

the overflow,

the accumulation,

all my small failures

piled in one dark place.

But this morning I opened it,

and there was the truth:

the proof of what I already knew—

I let things pile up,

I put off what needs doing,

I create messes

and then act surprised

when I can't ignore them

anymore.

The clothes want to escape,

they know they'll be washed again,

worn again,

washed and worn,

the same cycle repeating,

the same small failures

happening again and again

until the fabric gives out,

until the thread wears thin.

I should do the laundry.

I know I should.

But first I sit here,

looking at the hamper,

looking at the sock,

smelling the smell,

understanding finally

that I've been avoiding

not the laundry,

but the accumulation,

the proof

that I keep making

the same small messes,

over and over,

calling it living.