Refusal to Let Rot

The bag was heavy with wet grounds

and junk that makes those squelching sounds,

but I was kneeling on the floor

to find the thing I didn't want no more.

My nails are black with kitchen silt.

It’s a special kind of private guilt

to pull a Polaroid from the mess

and wipe the slime off of your dress.

A yogurt lid was stuck to the frame.

I feel pathetic, and I feel the same

stupid pull toward what I threw away—

the parts of me that I can’t make stay.