My bare feet
stand on the linoleum floor,
sticky from the hairspray
that is used to cement
every last one of your hairs
to your head.
I could cut my finger on it -
you said so yourself.
Though it's not my finger that
is bleeding,
but rather my heart.

My ears are ringing,
my head is spinning,
and my stomach is sinking -
sinking like a ship
with its captain still on board.
Desperately, I grab for
something,
anything -
anything that will keep me
sane,
but your assault keeps coming.

Every word that is spat, I taste.
Every blow that is thrown, I feel.
I read every thought written
across your sour, distorted face.

There is only one way to stop
the blood from flowing
onto the sticky floor,
and I must act quickly.
I summon the cold from deep within
and feel it begin to rise,
first through my toes,
then my calves and
into my lower belly,
until finally,
painful relief wraps
Its icy fingers around my heart.
The out-pour of blood has ceased,
but so has the beating of my heart.