Marked
The yellow sponge rubs itself harshly against my white plate
remanence of the night before crusted to its surface
a blood-like splatter of pasta sauce overshadows
the white pureness beneath
I continue to scrub until pain finds its home
in my fingers and knuckles
causing a sadistic need to continue my endeavor
and redeem what once was
Yet no matter how hard,
or soft,
or of gentle touch,
there is no washing away
what will always be a mark.
