Aftermath

Which one is worse then?

The calm before the storm.

Or the one that come afterwards.

The dearth of words

As I put things back in place,

And brush the broken ones

Under closets and carpets.       

The walls keep silent.

They know where I hide them,

The ointments and band-aids.

I stay in the shower for too long 

The water stings my raw skin

But I sit and watch the fake rain fall

In red swirls on the marble floor 

Is it love, then, all of this?       

       

That night, I cut myself open

And lay down the bits and pieces 

Trying to make out how they fit

I don't find answers. 

And it scares me,

How quickly I sew myself up 

the very next morning. 

I smile. I nod. I even laugh.

Until its night again, and I break.