Stains That Don’t Wash Out

by Veronica Tucker

Image credit: Anda Lupulet on Unsplash

It’s not blood.

Blood comes off—

warm water, firm pressure,

gone.

No, it’s something else:

the residue of choices,

the shadow left

after the light moves on.

You scrub.

Not just your hands—

the memory,

the moment,

the space where you stood

when you realized

you couldn’t save them.

But it’s woven in now,

threaded deep

into the fabric of who you are,

a mark invisible to others,

glaring to you.

You learn to wear it,

pretend it’s part of the pattern.

But in quiet moments,

you feel it—

not on your skin,

but beneath it.

***

Veronica Tucker

Veronica Tucker is an emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician whose poetry explores the intersections of medicine, motherhood, and humanity. A lifelong New Englander, she weaves themes of trauma, resilience, and fleeting time into her work, drawing from her career in the emergency department. She is married with three children and two dogs, balancing the chaos of medicine with her love for travel, fitness, running, and family. When she’s not writing or working, she can usually be found savoring a quiet moment with a matcha latte, reflecting on the beauty in life’s smallest details.