I wanna throw the dinner plates to the floor,
hard so they crack,
pieces shatter and explode,
across the tiles of my flat.
They’ll embed themselves in the wall,
or in the couches, or in skin,
They’ll embed themselves in me,
So I feel the impact, the sting.
The pain would register, I would scream
until I have no voice left to be released.
I would smash down all the others,
and won’t be satisfied until porcelain covers my skin,
glass blankets the floors,
and all the cupboards are empty.
My brain will feel so blank
that I won’t know what else to do but
slowly clean the mess I’ve made.