Broke the vase this morning,

that one that used to sit upon our dining room table.

The flowers inside

complimented one another,

where the dull colors brightened

as the light from the others shone.

The vase

that once sparkled in the sunlight

now lies shattered on the floor,

a million pieces

broken,

edges sharper than knives,

cutting my hands as I

pick up the pieces.

Blood on my hands

won’t wash asway,

won’t dry,

staining the single white rose

withering on our black linoleum,

alone.