a shot glass slammed onto
marble countertops,
shuddering and yet not
breaking.
breaking like your voice
when you tell him how badly
you wanted to die last night,
how you almost did it
with a beer can you
mangled until you could
slice through skin with
aluminium's sharp edge
but it didn’t work.
another drink is poured
and another shot is slammed
and your confession is hanging
by a noose wrapped around
the kitchen ceiling light.
red scratches, cuts, attempts -
whatever you want to call them -
protrude angrily and yet
he says nothing.
you feel like nothing,
like an empty cloud floating
through a sky you just
don’t feel attached to.
a sky you could drop from
happily at any time.
maybe the aluminum
will work next try.