I fold paper boats to stay afloat,

setting them adrift in the sink,

beside a sponge that’s lost its shape

and dreams I’ve rinsed down the drain.

Lemon-scented silence

clings to everything I touch.

The cleaner the floor,

the emptier the room.

Pine-Sol and tears,

poured slow into a bucket

too full to lift anymore.

Each boat carries a piece of me

I couldn’t bear to look at.

They sag with the weight of everything

I’ve swallowed, but still, I feel

this lump in my throat.

With movements quite robotic,

I fold, absentmindedly.

I busy my mind, busy my hands.

What stained and filthy hands I have.

I scrub the guilt, I scrub the shame.

But still, I cannot scrub

myself away.