A girl I once called “friend”
told me shame isn’t a productive emotion,  
so why do I bury myself in laundry at its name?

If I slip on headphones and blast Gracie Abrams
and attack the kitchen counter with soap and water
will you forget I disappointed you?

Sweeping hardwood and mopping tile
lighting candles to burn away the smell of my mistakes
Picture perfect, dust the frame.

If I fold my sins into brownies 
like mothers hiding broccoli
will you forget what they tasted like?