Things

The planks on our deck have sunken–some into the dirt.  The towel rack was pulled off the wall and the dryer relentlessly squeals.

It mocks me for its entire cycle.

There’s a hole in the swimming pool where the lining has torn- the water drains out.  The heavy glass door is jammed; we can’t shut it. Bugs fly in through the hole in my screen.  We are falling apart.  Nothing is coming together.  We don’t have what we used to.  Separate rooms for each one of us tends to be the circumstance.

I hide. I never felt bad about it.

I never say the first word; his voice always interrupts my silence, harder than his hand interrupted my throat.  She watch from the doorway.

Later, he ruined my desolation out here, underneath the evening sky.  He blows smoke toward me. He complains.

I look up at the clouds and become bitter toward them.  They pass so easily and never go back.  Their entirety will dissipate before they ever go back- unlike I. I, that never escape my hindsight.

And so I will waste myself away here; numb and weak now.

 

 

 

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