It was as if he turned off all the lights without warning.
She found herself creeping along the darkened hallway
like a blind person, feeling her way, stumbling often,
but never tripping. There were ghosts in the house
of her soul, didn’t he know that? And know she was
at their mercy. He left. He just left. Was gone.
Said he wasn’t giving her what she needed, couldn’t
give her what she needed. She wanted to
a·nes·the·tize herself into fragments,
into ten thousands tiny pieces, she felt
as though she could shatter herself
without breaking and then the ghosts
would not be able to find her. Splintering
into the crevices between floorboards,
she could find redemption. And in the
morning, sunlight would resuscitate her,
resurrect the pieces in an uneven heap
on the sofa, clutching a bottle of vodka:
hung over survivor of the apocalypse.