The Bloom

The washer thumps like a heavy heart

against the drywall, wet and dark.

I pulled it back to see the stain

where the pipe let out its slow, grey rain.

It’s a map of a place I shouldn't go,

a fuzzy black garden starting to grow.

I scrub with a sponge that falls apart,

bleach in my lungs and a sting in my heart.

The smell is thick, a basement's breath,

a tiny, damp version of quiet death.

I wipe at the wall until it's clean,

but I know what's living in between.