Break

When doors fly open,

staying wide for the neighbors

to murmur about the 3AM noise,

she sits there waiting to declare this bad day

as another notch in the wooden welcome sign.

He'd never lay a finger on her,

but he'd sure as hell break

the lock on the bathroom door.

Awkward drives, with silent treatments

are better than

the quiet hints of her splinters,

the faults that are responsible

for stinging his left thumb.

These days are cake walks

compared to the bad days on romantic tv shows she watches at night;

when she stares blankly at the screen

with crusted eyes.