I don’t know how many times I heard…
This hurts me worse than you, and
you will appreciate this when you’re older.
Neither one of those came true.
But I do appreciate the clean smell of bleach. I really do.
I even like the pain in my chest from the fumes.
Memories of going to the pool, summers, but most of all
Saturday mornings and the powder dust of Comet
my mother would cake onto the bathroom.
She knew it would be clean. Just by removing
the powder that became green sludge and killed any bacteria it touched.
Behind the toilet, on the tank, the little holes
where the seat was fastened to the bowl,
wash cloth after wash cloth my Saturday morning would unfold,
that strong smell wafting up from the hot waterfall
of the shower, the sink, and the floor.
Some dry powder floats in the air
and there’s a small spark in the back of my mind.
Not a punishment, a
chore, a routine that felt like more.
OCD… it’s not clean unless it’s done by me.
Hold it until we’re home, don’t touch anything—
did you touch anything?
No, nothing. I floated to the door.
I didn’t even touch that with my hand,
I kicked it then backed out.
Now a blank stare while the bleach blots it from her brain—
let the thought pass, let it go, because we all know
the clean smell of bleach will set us free,
it has the power to kill all that’s bad,
its strong odor can pierce the lungs,
make a chest tight and sore.
It’s worth it, and even more.
It feels clean and at home, and that something’s been done,
a fresh start.
My sins are washed away and it’s time to start a new day.
The same kind of joy that comes when it’s time to buy new shampoo,
or to see that the toothpaste tube is almost through.
Yeah, now there’s things to do.
I was never told that I would appreciate this in any way,
or that I would eventually love the pain.
Even if I try to push the thoughts away
and tell myself this is a game you like to play.
The bleach, it washes all that away.
I really do like the clean smell of bleach.
M.W. Gordon
