Shattering

A woman says take me home and you are struck
by the fear that you will not know how to touch her right, that you
have unwittingly made it this far without her knowing that
this was not supposed to be your life, a life your father
does not speak of and your mother doesn’t understand, her eyes
heavy and sad. This is the kind of life that the dishes
will be the undoing of, a glass handled carelessly one day will
break in your hands and that will be the thing you finally
can’t handle, your body crumpling against the sink, the weight
of your mother’s sadness, the bitter emptiness of your father’s
goodbye on the phone, your last trace of him, sterile and distant,
the endless ringing of every attempt after, the acrid taste of
the day you stopped calling, the despair, this life was never
what you wanted.

A woman says take me home and you say yes,
because how could you not?