Postcard to myself in a bad marriage

Walls were made for stopping fists
and paychecks were for squandering.
Shirts dried stiff on the line 
after bleaching. You left, you
always left, slamming every door
on the way out. The bed slid across
the floor and the child sitting on it
clutched at the blankets. I couldn't 
hear the voice in my head for all
the noise. I couldn't see the moon
following me on the road as I searched
for something I'd lost long before.
An owl called out in the dark. Or
perhaps it was me, asking.

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