Juice on the Floor

She spills it again,

three times in five minutes —

the sour flood pooling

on cold kitchen tiles.

My voice cracks,

not soft but sharp,

slicing the air

like glass breaking slow.

Her wide eyes fill,

mirror cracks in mine,

a spark I promised would never light,

a shadow I chase away

but can’t outrun tonight.

I see her flinch,

and see my mother’s glare,

something borrowed,

something returned,

a weight too sudden

for a tired heart to hold.