Scene from divorced life

"I am so tired of hearing about your assault."

"Do me a favor and get a job while I'm at work today."

"Why don't you ever think?"

These are the moments that my mind plays on repeat

on evenings when I am desperate for sleep,

afternoons when I am in someone else's arms,

mornings when I am just waking up.

The anger that you smeared over everything

doesn't scrub away,

despite my best efforts.

And I am left with a soggy,

stained bitterness,

as my only means to clear away 

over a decade's worth

of dust and neglect.

I am hopeful that bitterness will eventually evaporate

and not leave a greasy, cloudy film

on this life I am earning.

So far, it seems to be.

But every so often,

there is a splinter in the wood,

and my dust rag catches

pulls up larger pieces of debris

and I have to stop

fish the sliver out with a needle

and tend to another wound.

This is arduous.

Greif.

Mourning.

Not the marriage

but the misery. 

I wish I could hate you.

But that was always more your style.