Sticky Residue

A smear of Vaseline

catches dim light on worn paper,

translucent and stubborn,

a slick patch refusing to be cleaned.

It slides under my nails,

sticky and cold,

a mess I try to rub away

but only spread deeper.

Like the things I smooth over—

small betrayals, half-truths,

wounds hidden beneath layers

that never quite dry.

The jelly gleams,

a blot that won’t vanish,

proof that some stains

stick no matter how much you try.