The Housewife

Her house may be immaculate
but her mind is a dreadful mess,
from the overflowing dustpan
of emotions she must suppress.

The linen is neatly folded
and then tucked quickly out of sight,
much like all the intruding thoughts
keeping her up every night.

The dreams she once cherished
are circling around the drain.
How often can one spill regret
before it becomes a vast stain?

No amount of ruthless scrubbing
can scour away all her fears.
Her future is slowly sinking
in a tub of dishwater tears.