Third Way

The kitchen is small and the heat is high,

and you’re yelling about the price of the gas.

I can see her jaw in the way you sigh,

and his temper in the way you break the glass.

I tried to stop it, but my voice came out thin,

a jagged, sharp edge that I recognized.

The same old poison hiding under the skin,

the same cold look in my own tired eyes.

The oatmeal is stiff in the ceramic bowl,

and the spoon is dented at the tip.

I swore I wouldn’t lose my whole soul

to the way their bitter words used to slip.