The stain on my soul of the past won’t come out
I’ve tried and I’ve tried but I can’t figure it out
No bleach, or detergent, or vinegar tried;
Can remove the burning tears from my eyes
There are stains on my arms, from the ink I have bled;
As are the migraines, that jackhammer the dread
Coffee stains on my cards, now are permanent thoughts
Too precious to handle, too precious—it’s caught…
When the stain won’t come out, do I throw it away?
Or do I embrace imperfections with shine and with grace?
See.. stained.. is not tainted, prisms of a stained glass window
To accept what it is— is not weakness, its hero.