Dust learns my name
"I don’t want absolution. I just want the work to mean something other than my guilt being covered in dust."
I am the extra hinge on the house
the one that keeps the door from sagging
when everyone else leans their weight elsewhere.
No one notices hinges
until something won’t close.
The work multiplies quietly.
Dust learns my name.
The sink waits for me like a faithful animal.
I move through rooms collecting aftermath.
Cups with excuses in them,
none of them mine.
They call me reliable.
Which is a soft word
for someone who never leaves.
I scrub as if it were confession.
Fold laundry like I’m trying to make amends
with fabric.
Each chore feels like a small apology
I keep paying forward,
interest compounding daily
on a debt I don’t remember agreeing to
but feel in my bones all the same.
Who I was.
Slammed doors,
Words thrown like stones
smashing the windows,
no splashing across the lake.
No amount of clean counters
will reverse that damage.
I work like redemption
might be hiding under the fridge
or stuck to the bottom of a plate.
What burns isn’t the labor.
How only a few of us
carry the weight of many.
How effort becomes invisible
once it’s expected.
How love turns into obligation
without anyone saying the word.
My body feels static
like an overworked appliance.
I fantasize about stopping.
To see what would collapse
without me bracing the walls.
Then guilt snaps its fingers
and I keep going.
I love them.
The quiet truth.
But love shouldn’t feel like
scrubbing the floor when
the house is still on fire.
I don’t want absolution.
I just want the work to mean
something other than
my guilt being covered in dust.
I will peek underneath the fridge
let me hide there.
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