bleach and sadness
I open the door to our room and see the cushion stripped off of its usual dirty blanket. The room is practically empty apart from the crumpled old shirt lying on the floor filthy with cum and sweat. But I refuse to clean it. I refuse to disinfect the floor, set aside the cushion and throw the blanket and the shirt into the laundry bin. I want it to be just as it was when we left it this morning. I want last night’s memory to be briefly frozen in time. It feels easier this way I guess because if I do take them away what will remain are sepulchral white walls and tiles that will only reek of bleach and sadness.