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  • Who’s dish is this?
    His? Mine? Ours?
    Wouldn’t it feel good to break it?
    To break everything.
    After all,
    I’m broken.

    Who keeps the veggie chopping board?
    Him? Me? Nobody.
    We never cooked much anyway.
    I should put raw chicken on it. That’ll show him.

    The house is a mine field.
    Every object holds within it a memory.
    I have no way of telling which object
    my eyes will gloss over
    or my heart will remember fondly
    or which object will crush me.

    I glance over at the wall.
    That painting you made me still hangs.
    Beautiful red poppies
    destroy me
    my back slides down against the wall
    tears fill the room
    I sink to my knees.

    The snow falls harder.
    The fire glows warmer.
    The Goodwill box gets fuller.
    You disappear.
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