A Desperate Anthology to Non-Angsty Poetry

Stained

That one stain on my favorite blue shirt came out from nowhere.

Did it splash up from my green tea as I dropped it on the floor yesterday?

Or did I eat my spaghetti and meatballs a little too harshly?

I tried to get it out over and over again.

I scrubbed it until I couldn't feel my fingers anymore

And tried every trick in the book the internet could generate

And yet

It was still there.

I tried to ignore it

I tried to douse it with vinegar and let it soak out in the sun all day

I even tried to wear my shirt inside out

Because maybe it would disappear if I turned a blind eye to it.

No matter what I did, the spot hung there like a shadowed tree against the colorful dawn.

I couldn't wear my favorite blue shirt anymore.

But I still keep it around

Hanging it in the back of my closet, hoping it'd fade away

Every time I'd see it, it crawls up my sleeve and bleeds out

Just over my heart.

Leaving it permanently stained.

That one stain on my once-perfect blue shirt made me feel guilty for something I wasn't even sure I'd done.

It bloats under my skin like an infected splinter

As if it were a cup of coffee with a tad more sugar than normal.

The stain on that blue shirt is still there.

It still has its uses from time

I still wear it to bed

Or when I'm painting

Or messing around in the backyard.

It sits crumbled in my bottom drawer now

Like tumbles of dust on a shelf.

But now I have a new favorite shirt.

It's as dark as a total eclipse in the middle of August

So nothing will ever stain it.