In this poem
I am a washing machine.
*beep*
I take the things in your life that are a little messy
And hand them back to you smelling renewed.
They may be a little bit faded,
But hey,
It’s not my fault you like to buy the cheap detergent.
I came with your lease on life.
Your desire to keep things convenient.
Out of the way.
There’s a number on me,
To call if you need help with anything,
But you don’t think you’ll use it.
After all I am brand new.
Should be able to front load
Even the dirtiest task you hand me.
And do it quietly.
Cleaning all that accident.
That tarnished.
That stained.
I help people to not see all your lived in.
And you quite like it that way.
The tidiness of timing your decent.
Of keeping things in their place.
Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned
There’s just dirty and clean,
And long ago
You decided which one you’d rather be.
And in this poem
I am a washing machine.
Which means every two to three months
I’ll probably break down on you.
Be less than what you expect of me.
I will be too loud.
Even with the door closed.
Even when you’re busy living your life.
It’ll be frustratingly ordinary.
Your neighbors may ask about me.
Why I have to be so noisy.
If you could turn me down some.
Maybe not put so much dirty in my damaged.
Not use me so often.
Or,
Only do it when it’s convenient for them.
Your cleaning up.
Your weekly maintenance.
It’s just, they have lives to live.
And I’m preventing them from doing that
Without having to acknowledge that you too are here.
And could you be a little less existant?
Not so distractingly human?
We all have things to clean,
Maybe just don’t be so open about it.
And in this poem I am your mental wellbeing.
I am the thing you don’t want to have to think about.
You just need me to work.
Just work.
Just WORK.
Just do what I’m supposed to.
But in this poem
I am everything this life has thrown at you
That made you feel less than spotless.
Less than perfect working order.
I am the mess you’ve been trying to keep
Behind the locked door of your button up shirt.
Your pristinely pressed pleasantries.
Your occasionally dry cleaned calm
That came back with some stitching missing.
But battered
Was better than delicate
So you endured it.
You tossed a Tide Pod at the wound in your rumbling,
But the pain never washed away.
Didn’t come out cleanly.
Only lingered.
Only fit a little tighter.
And even the added softener
Just dulled the itch you wear like skin.
But you do wear it.
That pain.
That broken drum.
And no matter how delicately you set your
“I’m fine,” setting.
The cold water can’t wash away all that empty space.
After all I’m just a washing machine.
I can only do so much with what you present me.
And you’re not giving me anything to work with.
Just alcoholic detergent.
Just bleach that reeks of
“No really, I’m fine.
"I just…"
"I have…"
"It’s just been a long…”
And in this poem
I am me.
And every time I tried to washer machine my emotions.
Tried to put a claim on my generally electric hurt.
Every time I closed the door on the hand reaching out
Not to add in the mess
But to share in it.
The load.
The shambles.
To show that even with all my defects
I still work.
I still…work
I still…
*Beep*
About the Creator
S.C. Says
S.C. Says is an Austin based slam poet who has been performing slam poetry since 2013. He's toured and featured at venues and universities across the country, and his poetry has been viewed over 700,000 times.
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