I never said I had all the answers.
I would bite down on a piece of foil
with a mouthful of metal fillings
if I could have just one single answer.
Pulled in this direction, coerced in that.
Stretched until my arms ache
and my heart throws punches.
I used to stand on the edge of a waterfall
counting the seconds it took
for the river rushing around my ankles
to pull me over the edge. I'd fall
into the misty abyss, let the water
consume me. And in my own way, I died.
Over and over again. I was swept away
and I died. You're gone. You moved
out today. This is really over.
It took four years, one child, and a
drunken car ride to pull me over this edge.
I never expected this emptiness.
Without your things cluttered around me
your stacks of CDs on every surface
amid my stacks of unread books
your hooded sweaters by the door.
All gone. The fighting was never as loud
as this silence.

© Averil Sperry