Barely able to see the eggshell
white texture of the relationship, as
it cracks, splits, devours itself
wolf-like, fangs protruding. Ten
minutes in, the gloves are off,
phrasefighting, swinging words like
haymakers, fizzures in the mind
putty. She curses at him for
cursing softly under his breath.
Musk melon busting shots, like
vultures stuck in honey. They
duel in the cereal milk, they
twist in the chairs, like the
wicker was warped, and the
eggshell is open, at least
just a crack.