a blue, melting female form

A Blue, Melting Female Form

I should never have brought it up the way I did,

more careful about that kind of thing now. But

words are flying out of me so fast, I don’t know where

to gain some dignity. I sit in my desk chair, wait for

anything angry or cruel about our drifting, not

being preemptively sweet for when I find

the door open every single time you come home

between the front metal teeth, where my chest is

about his insect phobia and his childhood asthma

with my heart pounding behind my ears, trying

brimming with objections, and they were just now

poured in a measuring cup before pouring it into a

break somewhere because the front hall was

the montage of me getting ready for the big

fifteen minutes, but those layers underneath will

drift that far away from you again. What if you’d died?