Unwashed

It’s two in the morning and I’m on the floor,

tripped by a towel that’s damp and smells of the gym.

There’s a mountain of cotton against the door,

a pile of failures overflowing the rim.

A single gray sock hangs off the white plastic.

I don’t have the hands to pick it up now.

The state of the room has become too drastic,

a knot in the string that I don't know how

to untie or to cut or to simply ignore.

I’m buried in the fabric of a week gone wrong,

just lying here on the cold, hard shore,

where the laundry is heavy and the nights are too long.