You knocked the glass—I let it fall,
No shout, no storm, just watched it crawl
In shards across the kitchen tile,
And tried to meet you with a smile.

But then you laughed, and said, “Typical.”
As if my hands were pitiful,
As if the mess was all I brought—
You turned a break into a string.

I bent to sweep, but you didn’t stay.
The broom kept brushing you away.
Your silence is louder than a cry,
Your words still echoing, bone-dry.

It wasn’t just the glass that cracked—
Your voice had an aim, your timing tact.
You didn’t help, you had to speak,
And made a bruise where I was weak.

There’s a pain in the messes we create.
But worse when kindness turns to weight.
You had a choice: to hurt, or see—
And chose insult for injury.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Steven Thompson on Unsplash