Overflowing Corners

The basket tipped, and socks fell first,

a sloppy spill of cotton ghosts.

Shirts followed, tumbling over cracked linoleum,

curling like waves that never broke.

I shut the door fast, not ready

for the mess that’s become my quiet truth—

a mountain grown from days of ignoring,

woven from threads I forgot to fold.

Each piece a weight, a wrinkle

pressed tight into the corners

where light won’t reach

and waiting feels like sinking.