What Doesn't Come Clean

I scrubbed the tile

like I could scrub away

the conversation,

the words I can't retrieve.

The fumes made my eyes water

but I kept going.

My hands pruned from the water,

my lungs burning from the fumes,

and I thought:

this is what penance smells like.

Bleach and regret.

The chemical burn of

all the things

you can't take back.

The words are still here,

embedded in the grout,

in the corners I missed,

in the steam that won't lift.

I could scrub until my hands bleed.

The stain would still be there—

not on the tiles,

but in the small place

where I let myself speak.

Some things don't come clean.

Some things you just keep

scrubbing,

keep burning,

keep trying to disinfect

until you run out of hands.