I sat on the cold
Tiles in front of
The porcelain bowl,
Numb for what
Felt like too long.
Still I didn't
Feel like going
Anywhere.
There was a tap
At the door,
Followed by an
Insistent rapping.
"Jeanine," her voice
Was faint through the
Door. "I know you
Are in there.
Open the door."
With dead limbs
Painfully force alive,
I got to my feet.
I flushed the toilet,
And splashed water
In my mouth and
On my face, accepting
The sad woman
Who was reflected in
The bathroom mirror
Was me.
"Jeanine, we-"
Amanda looked at me
Across the threshold.
"Jeanine, oh Jeanine.
You look terrible."
She looked at the
Apartment over my shoulder
And shook her head.
"What do you want,
Amanda?"
"To talk."
"Now is not the time,
Not with the kind
Of day I've been
Having," I made
To close the door,
But she held it open.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too,"
I closed the door
On my lover of
Three years.
My ex-lover.
Any other time,
I would have
Let her in,
Tried to work out
Our differences,
But not today.
My wounds were
Still bleeding.
Instead of curling
Back into bed
And shutting out
The world, I walked
Into the kitchen and
Downed the tumbler
Of Scotch. The
Alcohol ripping at
My oesophagus before
Warming my stomach.
Opening my teary eyes,
I looked at my kitchen,
Really looked at it
And for the first time,
I felt shame.
Shame that pushed
Me to clean every
Dish and wipe
Every surface
Until the kitchen
Was spotless.
Then I tackled
The rest of my apartment.
Grateful for an
Activity that would
Distract me from
My life.
