I'd stick my finger down my throat
to make you notice the blood on the floor.
The bitterest of fights take place in silent rooms,
whispered words displacing hovering dust.
I stay awake at night, listening for the door to
open, for you to leave and wait at her doorstep,
bleeding knees a small price to pay for an

"I'm sorry".

I wrack my brain for a way to pull
your strings, I waste useless minutes willing your
anger away. Is it so hard to see what
the rest of us notice right off?
Sometimes I wonder if you can feel the
gravel stuck to my palms, placed their by your
blindness.
I'd never known you to be so upset

(to be so in love?)

I'd scream my throat raw but you
would never think to look down.
If you did you'd notice that this blood on the floor
is your own.