Another load churning spinning

Another load, churning, spinning,

a wet, heavy mass.

I reached in, for the denim, a fresh beginning

for a fabric that holds the past.

It slithered, cold and dense, against my skin,

a sudden dead weight in my hands.

The jacket, soaked, pulled me down, almost caving in.

Just laundry, but it felt like shifting sands.

The smell of detergent, sharp and clean,

couldn't quite cut through the damp cold.

It hung there, dripping, heavy, obscene,

a story too heavy to be told.