Amber Corrine 1/4

I still ache when I hear
the words you used
drip from the lips of others.
I count up odds,
trying to catch my breath,
trying to forget
the look in your eyes,
the eyes you gave to me.

I still feel fear,
when I hear a deep voice rise,
cringing away,
waiting for the accompanying crash
of glass against tile.
Or the slam of the door,
shaking the walls so hard
I thought the earth was moving.

I still swallow those memories
each time your mouth tilts
into a frown, even though
our screens and
an ocean separate us.

I used to be afraid of everything,
but now the only thing I fear,
is that my rage will swell
and spill over
and those same words will
rip from my throat.

I’m afraid to peer
into my reflection,
and see you
looking back at me.