the washateria

I can't get it clean

This unseen stain,

Perhaps I should refrain

From staring

Caring that it exists,

Consist of irresponsible

Remorse.

My mother taught me

That paying attention

To men intentions

Was the explicit instruction

Of a woman,

I learnt this while still tied

To the umbillicus.

Often I were fastidious

In my work,

Would not shirk request

No even if

It created less of me

To free from this circle.

I turn in a decreasing

Circumference of living,

Sinning sanity and staining

Innocence.

Now my mother is irritated-'

More inflamed

While I am shamed at my

Success.

I have all the money I could need

But won't buy a washer

To clean my dirty laundry

At home,

And though they stone me

As I walk along the street

I cannot retreat into shadows.

so I sit, watching the problem

Through the wet, wash, rinse

Spin cycle,

Knowing there is no repentance,

I forlorn at the washateria

Watching my reflection.