She used to cherish the smile while he ate.
Now his bitter "needs salt" replaces thanks.
Sex is urgent. Finished with the same grunt
as his bowel movements. Bedtime laughter
is always directed at his phone. Alone.

His greatest source of joy,
the nightly check in with Mom.
As he plans their next stop to get
"the best cooking in the world."
The once sweet comment sounding oedipal.

And she tries in full
to care and lift him up
from the dregs but every time
                        without exception
he only suffers from "nothing."

In that lonely tragedy
of work, home making,
phone, and love making,
she meets a guy.

He isn't warm, not even kind, but he's alive.
His every hiss a half thrown jest
not caring who laughs but her mirth cracks
that exterior. Showing an interest
she knows is fatal. His "hi danger" eyes
finding her heart in a death spiral.

But that hand reaches into her pit
and though the ants serving her inner queen bite,
he laughs at the pain and asks "that's it?"
Her royal horror bites harder
leaving him begging for sin.
And she takes all the flesh she can carry
leaving no moisture for tears.

Back home she's calm and steady,
scared her body's want has at last broken her enmity.
And husband complains of the same
daily tokens of grief.
And she at last snaps,
yelling out the years that she kept quiet.
Every balk from his throat,
a precursor to an insult disguised by rationality.

Lost in the gravity of a fight she won't end,
she grabs on to that rage,
a need for drama confessing her escapade
and finally that heap
remembers how to bleed.
He shouts
and he screams
and threatens safety.

In a scramble of limbs, she gets out with a scratch:
on her arm,
where untrimmed nails
leave a trail
by wedding band.

Her last stand a race,
to grab keys and drive
to a friend's place.
Knowing the path, she thinks herself lost,
for the girl who cried for getting 'B's to fall so far.

In that shame, in her car, she thinks of a child not the star,
who won her husband with a glow of confidence,
the indomitable glory of a woman who knows
she's worth every gaze, easily bored of men's praise.

For months she'll hide when explaining the tale
wondering if friends think her lust deserves jail,
but in time, with the strength to fight, she'll find
a sign that her heart survived. She'll laugh loud
and smile proud at the love thereafter. The soul
that holds her darkness giving weekdays a shake.

Yet on that drive between cities,
a road binding regret to tomorrow,
breaks from the haze of everglist.
Those weak balls of gas glow strong.
Though it wasn't love that trapped
it was by lust's burn that she ripped
off the gauze and snapped her ring.
Defiant wet cheeks smile as she sings.