Final Rinse

In the hum of machines,
his secrets swirl,
lost in the suds of innocence,
drowning in the final rinse.

Each spin a symphony of sin,
echoes of footsteps muffled
by the rhythmic churn,
as he wrestles with stains unseen.

Blood, thick and stubborn,
clings to fabric like guilt to the soul,
desperate for absolution,
he watches it swirl away.

The fluorescent light flickers,
casting shadows on his pale face,
haunted by the faces of those he’s taken,
their voices lost in the whirlpool of his mind.

He scrubs and scrubs,
as if the motion alone could cleanse him,
but the stains remain,
a reminder of the darkness within.

In the stillness of the night,
he waits for the cycle to end,
for the final rinse to wash away
the evidence of his deeds.

But in the quiet of the laundromat,
the echoes linger,
whispering his name,
a chilling reminder of what he's done.