My argument is framed in red--
mouth spilling words that shatter into
sharp syllables upon birth to air,
fracturing their meaning.

My anger is the strike of a child
who mistakes porcelain for iron
and takes down both with indifference
to consequence.

My regret is a cautious hand
brushing last night's debris from your face
in the morning light.
While you sleep,

I confess mea culpa from my side of the bed,
but shame is the stumbling block
that reduces my vocabulary to broken English
delivering a stillborn apology.

--Melanie Masson