Broken

I threw the keys.

They scattered across the tile.

One landed wrong, cracked,

the plastic housing split clean.

I stood in the kitchen

looking at what I'd done.

The key was still warm.

That's what got me—

the warmth from my hand

still in the plastic.

I could have left it there.

Instead I picked it up,

held the broken piece,

and the regret was already

crawling up my throat.

It was just a key.

But it was also the moment

I chose to break something

instead of just leaving.

The difference between anger

and stupidity.

I put the pieces on the counter.

They sit there.

I'm still looking at them.