Crimson Tiles

The white tiles are stained
and they used to be clean
until I came along
and messed them up again.

Every time I relieve stress,
I have to mop the floor
so no one knows what I have done
to cleanse myself for now.

The only friends that I let in
besides the mop and blade,
are paper and a pencil
to record my hurts and thoughts.

A notebook, battered and bruised,
lets me talk to no end or avail.
It's reassuring lines can keep a secret
about what's resting on them.

The paper doesn't tell,
the pencil doesn't speak
of the pattern it traces
and sets out in time.

They don't share with a soul
the story of the stained tiles.
They'll allow me to do that
in my own due time.