Six Months

Three days until it’s been six months since the move.

I am interrupted by a Luna demanding pets.
(She didn’t do this six months ago.)

We are sitting in the walk-in closet,
In what ought to be,
Or might still become,
My sewing room.

Amongst shrapnel, we lay.

Shoes strewn about, mostly near their mates,
Unless they landed and bounced apart,
As they were dropped in the shuffle.

For the first time since the move,
I am not seeing shame,
And I am not in disbelief.

It really was this bad,
Bad enough that I am not yet recovered.

A friend told me today
I am not important to the people who hurt me.
He is probably right.

It’s an agonizing sort of relief.
It burns its way through my hips and throat,
As I stare with glazed eyes at unassembled bits of my life.

Existing in this deteriorated space,
Being seen by people who cannot spare curiosity,
Lands like acid on my breastbone.

I refuse to flinch or look away.