Laundry.

White is such a dirty color to wear. Somehow, always, my inner dirtiness seeps to my outsides and collects in little spots of unidentifiable contamination. Most of the time, these go unnoticed. But when I spy from the corner of my eye a flicker of impurity I can only count down the hours until I can cast away those pieces of thread into the ever growing, ever changing pile of laundry which decorates my fiber bear and beaten green floor.

And even when buried deep in the abyss of twice worn clothes, those little spots find reason to haunt me, polluting my conscience. All I feel is rage at their lack of newness and perfectness. Things I am not. I can beat them back, squish them down but corners of those twice worn clothes seep, snake and slither from beneath the closet door until I give up once and again as I stand helplessly watching my laundry take over the ten by ten space I occupy.

I can turn my back, I can walk away but they worm themselves into my meandering path. Slowly I spin out of control, piece by piece unraveling some more. And when I can take it no longer I shamefully kick and half throw all the contents back onto the floor. And is if it is the worst moment of my life I seperate each piece, black from white, pink from blue. Not quite sure what this is all supposed to mean anyone besides you.

One by one, I fold you in. Corner to corner, edge from edge. I neatly fit you and your co-conspirators back where you belong, knowing for certain that days will come when you rip my sanity far apart. The time will come when you wrap your silky, satiny, or tweedy tendrils about me and all of the sudden I'm back and never quite done.