Bleached

Definitely meant to be read as a darker poem; let me know what you think.

Plate glass windows are meant
to look expensive.
You save yourself the costs
and wash them yourself.
A generic black bottle and clear blue
liquid with a fresh roll of paper.
Your blue rubber gloves even
match the mural you bought
on Ebay, the one you call
"conception," even though we
all know you didn't put any 
thought into buying something
an eight-year-old could do.

Three squeezes on the
trigger and the clear
blue liquid runs down the
window, quickly turning into light
purple streaks of single rivers.
The torn fibers from the
paper towel float in the midday
sun reaching through the living
room, making odd slants
up and down the carpet and tiles.
The lavendar tears almost
reach the windowsill
but you catch them in
your gloved, papered hands.
You run your hand
across the window, leaving
small patches of streaky
curves, the red splotches
disappearing with each swipe.
You toss the papers aside, let them
float down, down into the
bucket.
A watercolor of stains soon collects there.
But even after you've wiped away 
the purple water from your
expensive windows, you still
see the red, the abrasive swirls.

You pick up the black bottle with
the clear blue liquid, and squeeze.