"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.
