at home on the bathroom wall
there is a picture of me

she came home one day
and found it there.
and it shook her so bad, she spent
the next hour vomiting bad
(and clutching)
memories into the toilet.
she ripped it down and shoved it
under the rug and we pretend it's gone.
but now the glass is shattered
from being stepped on too many times
and our bloody footprints paint the house.

but she hasn't the strength
to lift the rug
and sweep up her mess.

it looks like maybe i was standing
before i was seized by emotion
because in the picture i am falling.
not yet on the ground, not just
on my knees (but close).
my eyes are squeezed shut
and the beginnings of tears are
leaking out the corners
my mouth is open in the
loudest scream a silent picture can make.
(looking at it, one can't help but hear)
and my hands clench my head.
one draggin through my hair
and the oher raking
welts down my cheek.

the vision haunts her.
it slices her feet when she
sits down to pee.
it's under the towel when she goes
to dry her hands
it's in the onion she slices for dinner
(but at least then she has an excuse
for crying)
it's in her pocket when she reaches
in for change to pay for gas.
it flashes in my face every time she sees me.

she can't escape it and that
scares her more than anything.
she carries it everywhere with her
the image burned on her heart.
she lives in fear of life imitating art.
of the day when she will come home
and every wall will be covered
in images of my anguish
of coming into my room and seeing
me struggling.

she has this rational fear
of me not being ok.