Bleach

I start to scrub,
my knees on the floor;
I poured that bleach all over the place,
in every nook and cranny I could see.

And then I pushed it back and forth,
scrubbing as hard as my weak hands would let me,
until my knuckles started to ache
and my eyes and throat burned.
The smell clogged my nostrils,
 slowly cutting off the air to my lungs and heart.

But I kept scrubbing;
I had to.
I pushed that sponge over every inch visible,
and I scrubbed until my hands no longer felt like hands.
I pushed around that malodorous, clear liquid until it dried up.

Then I washed it away with a bucket,
pouring clean water over it as my dry knuckles cracked and bled.

And when I was done,
I washed the smell out of my aching, wounded flesh.
I let the soap cover my swollen hands with it’s pure, white foam.
And you helped me dry them, then cradled me in your arms.
I was broken,
bruised,
aching;
and you held me until I was whole.