The stars crack the sky, which is purple and black and interrupted. They quiver against the crimson dome. It's sealed shut above me and I think the air is running out. Maybe once, the stars were blackbirds. Blackbirds that flew too high and forgot to come down. They are white now, because the sun drowned out all their black. They are white holes in the sky. I watch seven birds flying in a row; a boomerang. They always come back and never fly too high. I look at them with brand new eyes. The sky is powdered sugar.

The kitchen table is scratched. I write a list of everything he wants, and scratch the table even more. The tablecloth that used to cover the cracks is gone. It caught on fire when he dropped the matches, but it's still my fault and I don't know why. The radio doesn't work. I hear music in my head that sounds like stars. The stars look like birds. The sky looks like powdered sugar.

Milk, flour, eggs, and cereal. Maybe peanut butter. He asked for more,  but he wants too much. I remember when I had so much more, and he really looked at me. I remember when he saw me. Now, he just sees the scratches on the table, the broken radio, and my stomach which isn't pretty anymore. There's no music in my head; there's no stars. I walk through the house, which is smaller every day. Six more months, and nothing will fit. Three people won't fit. I remember when the house was big enough for both of us. I remember when the radio worked. I remember when the table wasn't scratched.
Sitting in my car, the engine breathes. I breathe too. The radio works, and it's playing sad stories I don't want to hear. The news these days is never good and I'm tired of all the noise. The other stations are fuzzy. I turn it off, and listen to the music like stars in my head. I like this better. The wheel is clockwise in my hands. My fingers are scratched from something I don't remember and they sting against the rubber. I spin away from the house that's too small and the radio that doesn't work, and drive straight. My pupils are swimming pools in the mirror and my eyes are at the bottom, drowning. Yellow lines on grey pebbles tell me where to go. Maybe once, they lead to someplace I wanted to be. Now they only lead to milk, flour, eggs, and cereal.

The cart handle is frozen in my palms, which are white and dry and feel like sandpaper against everything I touch. I push the cart like in front of me and try to make the wheels go straight, but they tremble in every direction. The cart is packed with everything he wants, but is empty to me and  I wonder what I forgot. I'm sure he knows. My hands like my stomach as they reach for it and smile a little. The cart floats ahead of me, just out of reach. I stretch one arm out and grab the handle, but it still won't go straight. My shopping list is covered in black lines. The slit in the register is too strong and my hands can't pull away. My credit card has written a receipt. I rip the piece of paper away and shove it into a bag. Milk, flour, eggs, and cereal. No peanut butter.
The engine breathes, and  I breathe too. I listen to the music like stars in my head and share it with someone else. My swimming pool pupils are black as my eyelids close for a moment. Someone turns over in my stomach. I share the music and I share the stars. The swimming pools are light as I open my eyes and squint through the window. I look at myself in the rear-view mirror, and I look different from behind. I press my foot on the gas and watch the red "Save Mart" sign disappear. Yellow lines tell me where to go. This time, they lead to the house that is too small, the table that is scratched, the radio that doesn't work. I lift my foot off the pedal and listen to the stars in my head.

The bags are heavy in my hands . Someone turns again in my stomach. Now, there's no music to share, and no stars. I stare at the house that is too small and wonder who lives there. I hope it's not me. There are three steps to the door. The top one is taller than the second, and  the second is taller than the first. The first one is tall, and  I wonder why someone would build a house like that because it doesn't make any sense to me. My hand is suspended above the lock. My fingers quiver like the stars; open.

He tells me I forgot peanut butter, and I tell him I'm sorry. He yells noise I can't hear. The music sounds like stars in my head and makes his words inaudible. 

"Are you listening?"
"Yes."

The stars are louder now. He yells through the music and I do my best not to listen. I reach down to my stomach and find someone there. My hands like it. The stars are louder now and must fight with him to get my attention. He stops yelling, and the music fades away.

"How was your day?" He asks me tiredly, with his face in his hands and his eyes on the table. He looks at the scratches, probably remembering when they weren't there.

"Fine. I talked to your mom on the phone, she's coming in a month to help us out. I think it'll be good for you, you need this."
"She can't fix me, Cecelia. She does this every time; thinks I'm broken and tries to make me better, but it never helps and I don't want to hurt her anymore. We're doing just fine without her."
"We're not real people yet, Patch. We don't even have scissors. We don't have  a tablecloth."
"We can take care of ourselves, why do we need my mother?" He says.
"No we can't, we can't afford peanut butter. How the hell are we going to afford a kid?"
"Celia, this job is going to work out.  I talked to Charles and he said I could get a permanent position at the firm. He said I had an in."
"But you don't know that, Patch."
"Yes I do. Why can't you just trust me?"

"Because you don't follow through! Because you say all these things but they're just words. They don't mean anything anymore! You say all this stuff and make all these promises but they're lies! Everything you say is dirt. Everything you say is nothing." He picks up his keys and walks out the door. This time, I've gone too far. You never shut up, Celia. Do you want to be alone? Do you? No, I can't. Please stop it Celia, please. I stare at the cracks in the table and wish the radio worked. I wish we had scissors. I wish we had a tablecloth.

The sheets are cold beside me and I wish for something warmer. I wish I hadn't said anything to him. Spider-webbed shadows are all over the room. I can see the stars outside, like cracks in the sky. Like blackbirds that flew too high and forgot to come down. They are drowned in white by the sun. They are  holes in the sky. The sky is powdered sugar.

There's no music in my head anymore.