The Laundry Room Manifesto

She folds the rebellion into fitted sheets—

each crease a battle line,

each sock matched and rolled tight

as a Molotov cocktail.

The detergent reeks of lemon and lavender,

domestic alchemy to bleach away

the stains of his entitlement.

*"Wash at 60°,"* the tag commands,

but she knows some sins

won’t dissolve in hot water.

His shirts, stiff with starch and fragile masculinity,

hung to dry on a line of quiet defiance.

Her panties, fluttering like flags of a nation

where her body is not a contested territory.

The children’s onesies, smeared with grass and grape juice,

future revolutionaries in the making.

At 3 AM, the washing machine hums a war chant,

vibrating the floorboards like distant artillery.

She pours vinegar in the fabric softener dispenser—

*let his collars itch with the truth.*

**Instructions for the Next Generation:**

*When they say "It’s just laundry,"

show them the blouse you set aflame

rather than wear his apologies again.

Point to the dish towel frayed from wringing out

words you never said.

Tell them even the spin cycle

has a direction.*