I am nothing more than a smudge

I am nothing but a smudge worn into the carpet from the countless pairs of the shoes that trample over me. My bold red being soaks into the flooring, caking into the delicate fibers of the tattered brown carpet. My dried fingers stretch out towards the doorway, towards the light that I know is waiting behind the solid wooden door. As I reach closer to the door I feel the pain of the harsh bristles, I know my time is short and that I must hurry if I want my message to go on. The soapy bubbles are breaking my constancy and my glistening color is being diluted with a bucket full of water. I wail in pain but no one can hear me, pretty soon I will be nothing, not even a faint smudge in the rug. I am nothing more than a smudge. A slowly fading blur worked into the fibers of the dirt brown carpet.