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.