Fading

When his words cut at the waitress, your laughter is hard.

He’s spoken about mortgage rates and you’ve talked rings.

She didn’t smile enough. She was slow. You tell yourself it’s blowing off

steam.

When he puts a hole in the wall with his fist, you put

your hands on your belly. Three months to go, and your heartbeat jumps.

Must be stress. Sleepless nights. Something. Things will be

fine.

When he throws a toy at your daughter’s head, you block

it with your palm. It slaps to the rug in a clatter that makes her cry.

His raise was deserved. The boss is an asshole. His blustering will calm

soon.

When the first bruise blooms, you wonder if it’s invisible. You

don't use makeup or short sleeves. He doesn’t apologize.

If you hadn’t made him so angry, you know. But no one says a

word.

When you look in the mirror, you don’t see the lines around

your lips, the hollow stain in your eyes, cheeks thinned from

silence. You look in the mirror and you don’t see anything left at

all.