The Confessions of a Washing Machine

The washing machine knows me well,
Let me reveal—
My first drawer only sees the athlete’s grind,
Clothes drenched in sweat, cycled in and out, time after time.

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My second drawer, a world of socks,

Weird, quirky, a collector’s prize,
A hobby stitched in stripes and spots,

A kaleidoscope of playful ties.

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My third drawer whispers elegance,

Dances, weddings, interviews, too,

Fancy threads from stores that speak

Of polished looks in navy blue.

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The top rack sees my comfy tees,

Loose, soft, a size too large,
A testament to lazy days,
A life of comfort, free of charge.

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The second rack, a denim display,

Jeans that hold in their own way,

Worn and trusted, day by day,
A staple in my wardrobe’s array.

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My shoe rack knows I walk, I run,

But to where? It doesn’t care,
It simply holds my soles in place,

For every journey, here and there.

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But the washing machine knows it all—

T-shirts from the coolest spots,
It knows I workout, five days straight,

Formal attire? Just one shot.

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It sees the pep band shirts, the shorts,

The Sagrada Familia’s towering grace,

The Quepos, Costa Rica tee,
The hiking pants, my socks’ bold face.

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“Fuck off, I'm reading,” socks proclaim,

Pomona pride, and Pride Parade,

My handmade tee, my leather jacket,

Each thread, each seam, a story made.

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The washing machine knows pink’s my hue,

It finds the tickets, fallen out,
Mary Queen of Scots, my sister’s show,

Lost from pockets, now spun about.

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Faster, faster, the machine whirls,
My Vineyard Vines pullover screams,

“Save the Earth” shirt in protest cries,

Goodwill pants caught in between.

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The pencil skirt and hiking capris,
In a battle, fierce and loud,
The socks, once friends, now rivals true,

In the spinning, tangled crowd.

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The washing machine, it yells at me,

“Take it out, enough!” it pleads,

Frustrated, yes, but only because
It knows me best—it sees my needs.