I stood by the sink, my hand covered in thick red blood.
A glass lay shattered in a pan of soapy, red dishwater.

I tried to call your name.

Maybe it was shock. The tears caught in my throat,
but, the only words out of my mouth were “Oh God, Oh God.”

Such words spoken by a non-believer.
Which God was I asking to help me?

You were upstairs, straightening up the room,
calling over and over, “What happened?”

You jumped over the banister onto the bottom stair,
only to become wide-eyed, pale-skinned
at the sight of your girlfriend’s blood.

And for the first time in two years, I realized
that these scars would forever be a reminder of the time
you couldn’t hold me and tell me not to cry.

For while my blood fell on your mother’s white kitchen tiles,
while my skin came apart,
so did you.