She marveled at how the bruises had faded
From black to blue to hue
Sorrow hang heavy
Weeping from her brows
Wet, soggy, little mirrors
The rivers had stemmed
The tides had turned
Twisted and evaporated
Into spilled milk
Upon the porcelain floor
She trudged
One toe at a time
Through the white
Through the soft
Heavy liquid
Now dried
The table
Unceremoniously she upturned
Proceeding to disembowel its legs
For it never knew how to stand straight
Anyway
Or how to hold
The delicate glass
Now shattered
In pieces
Under naked feet
And praying hands
Her knees
How they had once bled
Now rags staunched the flow
Hidden
Underneath
No one really looks anyway
At the floor
At her
In the water
Drowning
As she sits
In the chair
Stares
At empty hands
And the glass of milk
On the table
Waiting
Begging
Beseeching
Spill me
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