Sitting in the corner, I was just a sick animal; and you forcibly cut out my tied tongue. I wanted to bite you deeply and then lick your blood to make sure the open wound would soon heal, but you only left me with silence and yellow teeth.
I wanted to pour your red wine directly into my porcelain stomach until it leaked out of my pores and stained my raw, pale skin.
You dragged me by my collar and threw me outside with the snowman our children made: I was blue, and the air chilled me; I had to eat the carrot-nose just to feel my veins pulse.
Energy started coming back to me despite the deadened arctic-atmosphere that pressed on me like phantom-hands.
Through our living room window, peering inside and shaking, I watched you playing and smiling with them; their giggles put a shotgun to my chest.
While wishing my numb fingers could bend, I looked at my lost palms as the tears thudded and hit the flesh, and the crevices changed into frozen rivers.
You drew the blinds, and their little laughter was drained by the abiding plastic in my face.
My tail had no motion; the bones were filled with liquid nitrogen, and if I moved too fast, I might have shattered into blades of glass that would slice any person who offered to put me together into a taped-up version of my former-self;
they’d eventually choose to get a blunt broom and dustpan to empty me into a dark, fossilized cardboard box.
And, while still trying to see beyond the blinds, I was thinking of my babies spending their days with some masked spider that you’d decide to bring home; his webs could asphyxiate them as they looked at photos of me on our broken gyprock.
I couldn’t stand the idea of that imaginary, eight-legged bastard pretending to be their dad; and I began creating vivid thoughts of him lying with you on our mattress (which scared me): it made me want to grab a newspaper and squash his fabricated existence with advertisements and obituaries.
My loud heart was an ice cube that refused to melt and only wanted to try to cool your warm, sour whisky as you told me you were sorry; but my sore rib cage was whispering that I should toss my love into a kitchen sink so someone wouldn’t slip and injure themselves as they got coffee with me.
If I had my tongue back, I could bare to tell myself that this is for the best; but I’m still stuck staring at your blackened glass fogged by my breath.