The Sink

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

mountain ear-popping


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

so unstable.


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


the ground.


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.