Persistent Mark

Coffee bled like spilled blood,

a crescent bruise on the table’s skin.

I scrubbed—fingers raw, mind rough—

but the dark curve sat stubborn,

rooted deep in grain,

like a wound refusing to close,

a story etched by accident,

not apology.

It won’t leave, won’t forget,

just waits, mute and bitter,

there,

where I can’t undo

what the day spilled.