Things I do

I drive home with the radio on,
trying to forget your dead face.

I stand under my shower,
trying to forget your panicked father.

I pour milk on my cereal,
wondering why you tied the knots.

I watch TV on the couch,
trying to forget the marks on your neck.

I walk to the grocery store,
trying to forget the hopelessness I felt.

I wander through the aisles,
trying to forget the sound of your crying mother.

I workout for an hour,
trying not to be mad at you.

I stir my frozen dinner,
wishing you had told someone.

I drift into a restless sleep,
wishing we had made a difference.