I ask you to meet me in the shower, but
you can't-- you won't-- you're sorry.
You're sorry for not teaching me how to pee standing up,
for my childhood, for the fish tank, and for everything else
that led up to this.
And I stand somewhere near the bathroom door, still--
perhaps listening to this-- those sorry apologizes.
And I just watch
as you pick up each piece of substrate that is digging
like rice into your knee caps. I fail to notice, though, that my small feet linger
in a smaller puddle of blood and it's my blood---- fish blood.
-sonja lynn mata
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