I broke a glass last night.
And in that loud, terrifying crash,
I was eight years old again -
watching yogurt drip onto the kitchen tile,
so small, and so completely sure
that this mistake meant I deserved to die.
I ran up the stairs
and hid in the dark,
wrapping my arms around myself
in a desperate, suffocating hug.
I rocked back and forth,
choking on hot, silent tears,
pounding little fists into my thighs
because I had to pay for what I did.
One beat, two beats -
it was never enough.
I tore at my own hair,
clawed deep into my skin,
so that in the mirror -
as blood dripped down my body
and purple lumps swelled to the surface -
I could finally see the reflection
of who I was:
a monster.
Yellow rubber, swallowed by the wardrobe’s floor,
cracked wide across the instep where the plastic split.
They smell of wet rubber, mildew,
fear;
a pair of small boots, size twelve, seven years old,
caked in dried river-silt and salt.
A stranger may look in and call this precious,
a quiet snapshot of a girl who loved the rain
before her legs lengthened
and learned the art of running away.
How sweet to think I open up this closet to
reminisce an untouched girl leaping in the rain.
I never grew out of my yellow boots.
Perhaps I was torn out of them.
The monster does not have a face,
all rot and cold,
a mouth of shadows opening beneath the porch,
his heavy fingers smelling of damp earth and rust.
He never touched the boots; only the girl inside,
snapping her out of them like a bone from a joint,
leaving two empty hulls dropped flat upon the tile.
Each morning I reach into the dark for my coat,
and realize the closet is not where I hide the memory -
but where the monster wears my yellow rain boots,
waiting for me to slip my feet back in.
Every day it is a hundred and five
very little outside survives
This summer heat beats us down
grass dead, leaves brown
Not a whisper of rain in sight
heat fatigue even in the night
Stay inside pray the AC blows
constantly on, praying it won't explode
To hot to eat to hot to sleep
drinking water hydrated keep
Dogs kinda mossy than lie down
on the cool tile floor with em I'm found
Gentle rain drops soak deep in ground
than let it pour so lower temps cool us down
Give us a reprieve from this summer heat
Lord let it rain we will celebrate, praise and eat.
the clock keeps ticking
every breath i feel the house
and count ceiling tile
Alone I lie, upon this cold tile floor,
a humble sock, once twinned— now twinned no more.
O cruel Spin Cycle, thou relentless wheel,
that tossed me from my mate with heartless zeal.
Where is my partner now? Dost he yet roam
the shadowed caverns ‘neath the dryer’s chrome?
Once were we two, a pair in woven grace,
matching in stripe, in purpose, and in place.
Together did we warm the traveler’s tread,
together faced the hamper’s rising dread.
But now~
now I am but a single thread of fate,
a lonely wanderer seeking out my mate.
What foot shall claim me? What drawer grant me rest?
What mortal hand restore what kismet hath oppressed?
O merciful buyer, hear my muted plea:
take pity on this sock bereft, yet brave.
Lift me from this sorrowed laundry sea,
and grant me purpose past the dryer’s grave.
For though I stand alone, my fabric worn~
still beats within my heel a hope reborn.
One tipple too far,
barely enough to notice
made the first tile sound—
morning lost its clean edges
as choices became fuzzy.
The path did not break,
it merely curved a little
toward softer ground—
resolve missed a few heartbeats
dominoes fell step by step.
By dusk the tale unfolded,
not a great calamity—
a trail of slip-ups
from loose threads left ungathered
that slowly unstitched the day.
melancholic tidings—
optimism asystolic, now
fool’s paradise.
laconism stentorian
saline fluid agglomerating
“malignant” obfuscates,
formulates black stars.
fluttering, clouting
against ghostly pale tile.
aesculapian screams
circumnavigate weak cerebrum,
foxtrotting endlessly,
cold-blooded mockery.
serene bedrest
sinking linen counterpane.
morphing, suffocating
anaemic stature,
tasting like metal.
thrashing abnormal growth
actuate tunnels unending
i feel it.
i feel everything.
head encumbrance,
vessels strangulated,
blue skin a horror.
needle-punctured, scanned.
inhuman study. a specimen,
neglected medical non-priority.
fragile. no mind.
deteriorating. weaker.
sick. morningly.
please. help. ignored.
stained. vomit. pale.
monitor accelerating.
oxygen. chemotherapy.
please. help. me.
i. am. human.
bottom. medical. food. chain.
neglect. oxygen. oxygen.
oxygen. oxygen.
need. medicine.
nurses.
loud.
sonorous.
ringing.
light.
hunger. thirst. taste. smell. vision. touch. hearing.
taste. smell. vision. touch. hearing.
vision. touch. hearing.
touch. hearing.
dont. go.
hearing.
loud.
asystole.
We have enough stuff to make dinner for anxiety.
All of the empty fixings we raise our laughter to.
He comes over once a month, every two weeks, once a week.
Settles down like tile patterns in the kitchen.
Anxiety has wit and is not scarce.
Blooms of stocking stuffers when it’s not even Christmas are deadly.
Maybe I’m brave enough to be spilled all over.
I have anxiety in my twitchy scalp.
We really do have enough for dinner.
The steam from the boiling pot is withering.
The scene opens mid-sentence—
blood already drying on the dialogue.
No establishing shot, no mercy,
just a cigarette burning itself to death
in an ashtray shaped like California.
He says he’s done.
Yeah—done like a revolver with one round left,
done like a jukebox that only plays heartbreak
and B-sides nobody remembers
until they’re bleeding out on tile floors.
“Quitting,” he says again,
like it’s a clean word,
like it doesn’t drag chains behind it—
film reels, severed timelines,
women with vengeance in their eyes
and men who talk too much before they die.
The camera circles him, slow—predatory.
You expect a twist.
There’s always a twist.
But nothing flips.
No trunk pops open.
No hero walks out of the fire.
Just silence—
long, uncomfortable,
the kind you don’t trust.
Because in his world,
nobody really quits.
They monologue.
They reload.
They come back wearing different suits
and call it something else.
So when he drops the word “quitting,”
it lands like a bad line reading—
too neat, too final.
And somewhere off-screen,
a record needle scratches,
waiting—
for him to change his mind.
Up here, so much do we lose
In a mist.
Home life's relatableness.
All the while
What is left unrecognized:
Its roof's tile!
More for its good, this grateful.
Dissolved quite!
What, boulder- like, dragged behind
For care-weights
Had been, for mind's strain, til now;
From these heights.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three shadows slipped through fluorescent halls,
silent as the dismissal bell's dying hum.
The home ec door—unlocked, of course,
swung wide on hinges slick with grease.
I kept my post beside the lockers,
listening for footsteps down the tile.
The scent of brown sugar and butter
drifted out like a traitor's whisper.
My friends emerged,
the chocolate chip cookie dough bowl
cradled between them,
gleaming under the exit sign's red eye.
Spoons plundered from the cutlery drawer~
our spoils now.
The bench by the soccer field,
pockmarked with old gum,
became our banquet table.
We dug in, sticky-fingered, laughing,
each mouthful sweeter for the sin.
(I only took a taste.
Just enough to lick the spoon clean.
Just enough to be complicit.)
Next morning, the janitor found
the empty bowl washed
and left politely in the sink.
No note. No crumbs~
only the smell of chocolate
and vanilla lingering
like an apology no one would ever hear.
*Related memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/adventures_in_home_ec_class_13676
butter dish knocked over
tiny paw prints on tile floor
tail hiding near couch
Amore is music to my ears
Soft as your breath
When the room goes quiet
And you’re all I hear
Amore is music to my heart
Little offbeat
But somehow in rhythm
Every time you touch me
Amore is music to my ears
Amore is music to my heart
Every little look
Every word you start
Amore is music to my ears
Amore is music to my heart
Amore is a box of chocolate
Half-melted in your car
We laugh as it stains our fingers
Say we’ll never wash it off
Amore is the wind that’s blowing
Through the open kitchen door
You dance with a chipped mug in your hand
Bare feet on the cold tile floor
Amore is the thunder
Lightning
Rolling wild above our roof
I count the seconds in the silence
Then I fall back into you
Into the patterned tile and out the swirl,
So does my conviction spiral,
Towards the sun-twinkled edge,
Warmer and warmer do the eyes burn,
Where I can't trace with the tongue.
From behind to beside to opposite you,
So is the path of my conviction,
As you evolve only in perspective,
It is still you I am fixated on,
But your stasis deems me strange.
Away from the center, towards the edge,
There is the dome of my conviction,
The wind on your shawl waves me away,
And when I reach for it's familiar fringe,
My hands come away bloodied.
They are trampoline heroes
Battling unknown and unseen demons
Twirling in mock flight
Feigning a fierceness not felt
Children of a lesser fraud
Molded by changing winds
Guided by often unsure hands
Learning to trust in themselves
Lessons from multiple mentors
The necessity of strength
The guidance of gentleness
Softening the voice of anger
They will learn from the building of Magna-tile castles
The basics of perseverance and character
The machinations of a forming mind
Changing with each decision made
They seek without seeking
Think without “thinking”
Trust that the trampoline is safe
Knowing that we are there
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