Stains I Couldn’t Wash Away

Coffee blooming, a dark sick petal

spreading slow across my sleeve.

The subway tile cracked beneath me,

a slick puddle like a spotlight

on every mistake I've ever made.

A stranger's laugh spilled loud,

surprised and real—no sneer,

just that wild laugh,

a sudden invitation to feel

exposed and soft

and painfully human.

Heat rising, hands trembling,

I wanted to disappear

but couldn’t unspill the dark

that caught in every crease,

a map of moments

I wished to scrub clean.

Instead, I stood there

sticky and shy,

a slow apology

waiting on the edge of words,

learning that shame’s a wet stain

sometimes better left to dry.