Kitchen Sink

You ever know that sinking feeling,

while you were doing dishes

late at night?

When it's as if all the negative feelings in the world were captured in that sponge;

every creeping anxiety,

stressful fretting,

numb emptiness...

all the doubts,

disgusts,

fears,

loathings,

griefs...

It was so saturated that to touch it would be to release a torrent of foul smelling liquid.

So you let the water run over it, squirting it with copious amounts of dish-soap.

You lathered and squeezed,

wrung and rinsed,

soaped and squished,

repeated the chore of cleansing the stench,

Knowing that the best you could hope for

now,

was something dried out and brittle in the morning

something that would never be as absorbent as before,

But at least it wouldn't stink as much, perhaps.

After the final rinse,

3 a.m-ish,

you bring it up to your nose

reluctantly sniff,

and smell nothing but soap.

A small victory.

Hollow,

but

you'll take it.