Stain on Your White Dress

My hands twist together

grubby, brown fingers hiding each other.

It seems selfish to mar your fragile innocence,

your crisp, white, clean slate,

with my damaged truth.

You speak of your hardships

and I listen without judgement.

But I can’t help but feel dirty in comparison

and I shuffle my feet

and I bring my arms tight against my body

my hands under my thighs,

pinching hard.

It’s my turn to speak.

My voice catches in my throat,

mingled with the swallowed past trying to escape.

Like an overflowing trashcan,

I push it down and I blink away the sting.

I would speak

but I don’t want to be a pesky stain,

soiling your beautiful white dress.

Or worse,

a stain that doesn’t stick

and is washed away with water.

I want to linger.

My words remain inside,

festering.

But they remain mine.