Hulk smash. But then what?
I
pretended to have changed, she’d pretended to be hurt in the first place.
Run away and there?
A
viscous drop stretches from the baseball bat in my hand. I don’t even own a mitt.
You stand opposite. A clump
of hair on yours.
“It’s
for the best,” your plastic mask mouths as we swing methodically,
finishing
off our pimply teenager of a marriage.
