Dragging Mud Across a Clean Floor
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I scrubbed this space clean.
Not casually.
Not symbolically.
On my hands and knees,
I removed the residue of harm—
the fingerprints,
the grime worked into corners,
the stains left behind
when access was mistaken
for entitlement.
This floor is not accidental.
It is earned.
And still—
the memory of intrusion lingers.
The echo of what once crossed the threshold
without regard
for what it disrupted.
There is a difference
between misunderstanding a boundary
and refusing to respect one.
What remains is not clumsiness.
It is disregard
remembered by the body.
Old narratives track themselves in—
recycled grievances,
stories that refuse to decay—
as if contamination were easier
than self-examination.
If it were ordinary dirt,
I could clean it.
Disinfect.
Move on.
But this was intentional once.
And intention leaves a deeper mark.
What I am naming now
is not presence,
but residue—
the imprint of proximity
after access ended.
So let this be clear:
This space is not open.
It is not negotiable.
It does not belong
to what could not respect it.
This floor is clean
because I made it so.
And whatever was once dragged through it
stops here.
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