Is This Really It?

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.

Melancholic Locker

What’s in my locker?
8 glue sticks that will never be used
2 pencils lying in the back corner
1 lonely backpack always hanging there
1 folder bent and torn beyond repair
1 sketchbook waiting to be drawn in
1 math notebook filled with the knowledge I’ll never gain
1 extra badge to save me from detention
1 snack to get me through the day
1 lunchbox, so I don’t starve
What’s always in my locker?
0 regrets because all of those things shape who I am