Fault Lines

The ceramic was thick and the handle was wide,

a heavy blue mug that I threw at the sink.

I wanted the noise of the splintering pride,

a sharp, sudden snap that would help me to think.

But the silence that followed was worse than the crash.

I stood in the kitchen and felt my heart sink

under the weight of a temper so rash

that it ruined a history in less than a wink.

I stepped on a shard, a clean, biting sliver,

and felt the red bloom at the ball of my toe.

The jagged white edge of the handle delivered

a message I didn't yet want to know.