Admissions

It was hiding under a pile of socks,

a translucent strip of a week I lost.

It snags on my sweater and gently shocks

my skin with the memory of the cost.

The thermal ink is a blurry gray,

showing the date and the time of the fall.

I remember the floor wax and how I lay

watching the shadows move on the wall.

You can’t just wash the sickness out

when it’s printed on plastic and snapped to the bone.

It’s a jagged reminder of what I doubt

when I’m standing in the laundry room, alone.