In the silence of a shadowed home,
where secrets tumble down a laundry chute,
whispered fragments of a hidden mind spill—
a slip of tongue, a crack in veneer,
revealing the dark fabric beneath.
Words, like socks, disoriented—
unmatched, thrown carelessly,
dragged by unseen currents of desire,
clattering into the abyss below.
A subconscious cascade, relentless and swift,
carrying the sins we never dare admit.
Behind closed doors, the chute swallows & swallows,
yet never quite cleanses the stains—
only buries them deeper, into the unseen.
And as I watch it run,
I wonder—what else slips through that narrow opening?
What part of me, unspoken, unlaundered,
lurks at the bottom, waiting, silent?