I've nowhere to hide my dirty clothes
which sit in a pile to the right.
I swept them underneath my bed,
but somehow they fell back into view.
I pushed them behind my desk,
extinguished odor with scented candlelight.
Still, somehow, the unwashed pants and panties,
the self-disappointment and anguish
and slips
refuse to stay hidden.
I always find the pile, growing ever larger
in the center of my floor;
the sight becomes evermore difficult
to ignore.
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