I never burnt my tongue.

The water was never too hot, never boiled over.

Your words were never too

loud, too

much, too


They were only ever empty. The silence was unbearable, usually.

But then that one dark day came.

You’d spoken again.

And I couldn’t hear again.

Well, when it’s enough, it’s enough.

And when they fight, they fight.

So I yelled into the room

only to hear my own echo.

Where were you?

I screamed and screamed and screamed.

But I was all alone.

My mouth burnt, afterwards, from the foul language and sour truth.

The pot had overflowed, at last, and the hot water had burnt my skin.

Because I hadn’t paid enough attention to it, to you, your meaning.

The kitchen’s been empty since, hasn’t it.