The Unyielding Spot

Scrubbing, scrubbing—the same loop, dirty water pooling

in the sink’s belly, brown like old regrets.

A coffee ring blooms like a bruised circle

on my best shirt, the one I wore for hope.

Thumb presses down, presses down harder—

the stain pushes back, darker and deeper,

staring at me like I owe it something.

No amount of soap will sever this claim,

and I am clumsy, desperate,

pulling at threads I can’t repair.

That spot is stubborn.

It’s my stubbornness,

waiting there like a fault line,

never fading, always present.