The Laundry Chute Confessional

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?