My mother told me yesterday,
I just don’t love him anymore,”
rolling the suitcase and heaving herself goodbye.
Her voice harassed my ears, stinging.
Like the ceramic mug I dropped last week
I shatter,
sharp bits spewn across the kitchen.
I invite myself over.
Your house,
the familiar cactus in the front window,
I can’t quite keep myself there.
I step out of my skin—uncomfortable.
You hurl a line in my direction,
the hook sinks, stings.
You tug and I come down
back to your front porch,
slivers pierce upon impact
a tangible reality.
Later I walk with my dad
haunted by how regular the neighbourhood remains
in existence.
The wind prickles, I shiver,
hair stands on end from one fingertip to another.
We step over the barbed wire fence, like usual
but for the first time I imagine it choking,
breaking my fragile bones,
jagged shards like the bile I feel rising in my throat.


Still her words, like a needle
drag across my inner ear
             excruciating.