The anger burnt her tongue
and her stomach churned violently.
Her mind disengaged.

He used to love her more than his ipad,
pay her more attention than his phone,
but she had given up on that.

Their keys were cracked, faded;
their screen was smudged and scratched;
their battery redundant.

If he were Pinocchio,
he could have planted trees with his lies;
there would have been hope.

As it was, there was nothing for it,
save stepping off and diving.
But could she swim?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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