The Seams

I pulled it out to wash

and really looked at it—

the pillowcase I bought

five years ago

when I believed in brightness.

The seams are still white.

Pristine.

Hidden.

But the rest of it,

the part that's touched my face

night after night,

has turned the color

of old tea,

or sweat,

or time,

or all three combined

into something

I can't scrub out.

The fabric itself

is stained in patterns

I can't identify anymore.

Some marks I recognize—

that's probably coffee,

that's probably blood

from a cut I don't remember.

But most of it

is just the accumulation

of what my skin

leaves behind,

what my breath

touches,

what the sun

through the window

has slowly burned

into the cotton.

The hidden seams

stayed white

because they never

had to carry me.

The visible parts

aged the way

all visible things do—

slowly,

without permission,

without asking

if I wanted them

to change.

I could buy a new one.

Start over.

Believe again

in brightness.

But instead

I'll wash this one,

and the stains will stay,

and I'll keep using it

until the whole thing

matches the color

of the parts

that touched me.

That's the real

whiteness.

That's the only white

that matters—

the seams you never see,

the parts that don't have

to be touched

to survive.