I need the gallon.

The white one. With the cap that hisses.

It knows. It understands.

Not a cloth, not soap,

not water that lies and leaves it behind.

I need to peel it out. Strip it. Boil it. Burn it.

It’s in the corners.

In the walls.

In me.

I watched it happen.

I let it happen.

I smiled—why did I smile?

I can still smell it.

Hear it hum beneath the tiles.

It hums my name now.

The jug will fix it.

The jug will sing.

I’ll pour until it screams.

And maybe then—

maybe then—

the mirror will stop grinning.