arguing morning


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.