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Poem

I've shoved everything into the corners of my room,
And now there are little bits of everything that I can't seem to get rid of, scattered across my carpet.
And there are cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, giving my already dimly lit room a Halloween-worthy performance.
I told you that I was going to tidy the place up,
But it was hard to find the motivation to do so.
There is a pile of clean laundry, stacked a bit too high on my bookshelf, that is teetering sideways.
Those clothes probably aren't even clean anymore.
Those books are probably the only things in my bedroom that aren't covered in dust.
I told you that we needed laundry soap, and asked you to pick some up from the store on your way home from pilates class,
But I didn't tell you that I was going to use that soap to clean my bed sheets.
I haven't quite gotten around to my linens yet, and at first the sheets seemed so easy to deal with.
But a few days have gone by, and now my bedsheets are an uphill mountain that I'm struggling to climb over.
Barefooted and without a safety net, it feels.
You were so kind, and you told me that you had no problems picking up the flower and chemical smelling laundry soap after your health venture from town.
But now I feel like such a failure for not washing my sheets.
And they so desperately need to be washed.
And I so desperately want to be lost in that landscape printed onto the front of the laundry soap jug.

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