Dirty Laundry

The Inner Circle has strict ordinances:

leaves may fall,

birds may chirp, 

shirts may dry, 

as long as they have nothing interesting to say.

Personality is permitted—

curated by a drink in hand. 

I'm just airing out my dirty laundry.

Towels applaud politely.

A fitted sheet tries to escape.

The unmatched socks refuse to comment.

The breeze flows in

without an opinion.

Everyone loves freshly washed linens. 

You just have to ignore the stains.

Stains must be scrubbed before they set.

An untreated stain is a confession.

The moment a clothespin does its job, 

everyone becomes an expert in etiquette.

I'm just airing out my dirty laundry.

You splattered me

in full daylight,

then criticized my method

of cleansing.

The dirt receives a lifetime achievement award.

Footprints are promoted to community leaders.

The stain hires a publicist. 

Soon it's described as "a difference of perspective."

The breeze, 

smelling like fresh air

says “You confuse the scent

with bad publicity,”

to no one.

The air has better manners than people.

The stain becomes my reputation. 

The mud keeps smiling,

posing in photos 

with people he trashed and never told.

I commented once:

Not everyone in that picture is your friend.

Ask him about his texts.

It's still there.

The shirts have their own opinions now. 

Pillowcases inflate testimony.

The clothespins look nervous—witnesses 

who've seen too much sunlight.

Only the breeze remains

impossible to cross-examine.

You said it.

I just repeated it.

I'm just airing out my dirty laundry.

If that soils you, maybe don't say it.

And get your own fucking detergent.