It presses, thick and clinging.
With shaking hands, I raise the damp cloth;
Look anywhere but her face.
It comes off easily.
Clean.
And keeps coming.
And coming.
I scrub.
It coats the cloth in strands like putty,
But it hasn’t come off.
I keep scrubbing.
It patters by my feet,
of the same stuff as tears,
But it hasn’t come off yet.
I keep scrubbing.
It slides down the sides of my neck,
Warm and congealed.
But it hasn’t come off yet.
I keep scrubbing
The face in the mirror gleams and grins.
And it still. Hasn’t. Come off.
I keep scrubbing.