I sit at my kitchen table.
He painted it white for me last year when I begged him to
I pick at its chipping edges with a cracked fingernail.
I remember hours before
the sharp door slam
was giving me a splitting headache.
the clack-clack of his dress shoes
as he was leaving
I glance down at the remains of the china plate
all our friends signed at our wedding
I think I forgot to keep up with them while I
focused on keeping up with him
now their names scattered on our blue tile floor
look so wrong
I used to cherish each signature that represented each face.
My puffy eyes gaze emptily at the sink
its unkept silver edges were so shiny
the rust is chipping like the paint on the table
I don’t believe we have any dishes left in our cupboards
they all pile in disarray in the sink
mug on top of spoon, mixing bowl on top of mug
My fingers shake as I use them to push my hair out of my eyes
I rip some strands out as I draw my hand back to my chest
the blood from my head brings back the ringing in my ears
the chair suddenly seems like a feather under me as I crash
I notice the china pieces seducing blood out of
my paralyzed legs and arms
and glance up at the side of the sink where it
has been dripping down since hours before
my head had damaged the sink as it
had been slammed into the chipped metal
time and time again
the poor sink
stained with my blood.
I spent many nights scrubbing blood out of the carpet and from the tile
off of the cupboards and our bed
my hands and my shoulders
my head and my chest
my first thought as I lay here is
can I possibly clean it up in time for dinner?
my second, I have to get out.