What Stays

The rust-colored mark spreads

like it's got somewhere to be.

I've tried bleach. I've tried scrubbing.

The shirt is ruined. The stain is free.

It's just a stain. That's what I tell myself.

It's fabric. It's fixable. It's not a big deal.

But I can see it when I look down,

can see how the color will never peel.

I wore it to work yesterday,

caught it in the mirror's honest eye.

Everyone could see it. Everyone knew

that I couldn't keep things clean, that I would fail to try.

Or maybe nobody noticed. Maybe it's small.

Maybe the mark is just in my head,

a permanent thing I can't erase,

a way of knowing I've already bled

something I can't get back.

The stain keeps spreading.

The shirt is still hanging in my closet.

I keep wearing it, letting it announce

that some things don't come out.

Some things just stay.