As the noises and the shouting swiftly fade away, but not inside her head, she takes robot-like steps towards the kitchen.

Still echoing in the caves of her soul, his sharp javelins excruciate the invisible flesh.

And cut like hot knives throughout butter.

The hot water tap is fiercely pressed. Roaring water pouring over dirty pile of dishes in the kitchen sink.

Howls of aquatic pain conceal the spasms of her intercostal muscles, like a cheap make-up, covering flaws of a disfigured skin.

Two strands of throe, spawning from the soft brushes of her black eye-lashes meet just below chin, drawing a distorted¬†♥ - figurine on her face.

She can't let it all out, she mustn't !Choking the ache, drawning it back inside, biting the raw flesh off her lips.

Too afraid to scream all the shrieks out loud, in one, single clamor, borne to vanish into ether, along with the soundwaves.

Left hand picks up a plate. Right hand reaches for foamed sponge, mechanically cleansing the pile of plates. Whenever the inner chaos appears to errupt, systematization and purifying of the outer havoc, always gives her hope.

Hope is there, among all that dirt, misery and overloaded ahstrays.

Hope is her soapy left hand rubbing her right one.

Hope is that shiny ellipse enclosing her annulus, gently gliding along a detergent slide, off her finger.

Hope is a wedding ring stuck in a drain.

  Inspired from my

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