Permanent Marker

I was laughing at a joke that wasn't that funny,

trying to sound like I had time and money.

The beet hit the rug like a drop of wet ink,

a deep, bloody purple before I could blink.

I’ve scrubbed until the fibers are fuzzy and torn,

a patch of the carpet that looks ragged and worn.

I’ve used the ammonia, the bleach, and the spray,

but the ghost of that dinner refuses to stray.

It’s a map of a moment I can’t quite erase,

a bruise on the floor of my own living space.

The more I try to fix it, the worse the spot grows,

a permanent record of everything it knows.