a.m.

"you have made my life a living hell over the past two weeks"

grabs her waist and throws her on the bed. 

cuts deep.

and he'll yell at her just to make her happy.

make her feel justified. 

1 a.m. screaming and mornings filled with the smell of coffee and arguing about maids. 

when does it end?

after I leave I know I'll still hear them fighting

whether it be in the form of divorce papers

or heartbroken phone calls. 

there were fourth of july's with makeup thrown at the walls

and I ran away

far far away

into the woods as far as my ten year old feet could take me

and I came back with broken ankles and a concrete smile that hasn't been broken for eight years 

and a little bit of pixie dust that I sprinkle over my eyelids every night

in hopes of better days. 

but it's been eight years.

and I'm running out of dust.