Sledgehammer

I showed you the blueprints of my fears,

unfolded them slowly before you

like fragile paper from a former life.

I pointed to the cracks in the foundation,

where the ground had split before,

where even footsteps

had to be gentle.

I told you exactly what would break me.

You nodded---a contractor accepting the job.

Now the house is full of rainwater.

The walls drip with what you broke.

And you stand knee-deep in the wreckage,

cool-eyed,

looking around like none of this makes sense.

Like storms just happen.

Like you didn’t leave the doors open

while the sky was battling itself.

You keep asking why I’m still angry.

You keep telling me to clean myself up faster.

As if grief were a spill

I could wipe away

while on my knees with paper towels.

You say my pain makes it hard to breathe,

like my drowning

is somehow drowning you.

But listen carefully: you knew exactly where the fault lines were.

I showed you.

No, I will not apologize

for the fury

of a heart breaking.

If the ruin makes you uncomfortable,

remember: you swung the sledgehammer while the rain poured in.