Cut my finger on a shard of glass
last night
cleaning up the mess you made
punching out your window
the weekend of the Packers’ game

Stared at the blood welling up
around my cuticle —
a stabbed moon

Thought of your hands
on my throat
words falling from your mouth like
mad dominoes
in sanguine shades and
Absolut blue

Dropped the glass into the dirt
brushed my hands
and went upstairs to repair
my own damage.

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