slap me with a splintered ruler

What would I do if you were suddenly standing here before me?

I'd slap your face,
punch your gut,
knee you in the balls.
Then slap your face again,
because I picture that action providing the most release.
It's the sound the striking hand makes.
The mark left on your cheek.
These are tangible things.

Your (marked) face might look shocked, pained, or sad.
Then of course I'd feel bad,
since none of this is your fault.
But I can no longer direct my rage inward,
Because I am worthy
and beautiful
and lonely.
That's the problem, nothing works.

I burst into tears the other night while brushing my teeth.
The sounds masked by the humming of the sonic toothbrush.
See my sparkling smile?
I composed myself and slid every so gently under the blankets.
I practiced calm, even breathing.
Not too deep.
But it wouldn't be quelled.
Emotions welling with the force of a hurricane,
my face and neck, bulged with tension:
they betrayed me.

A tear escaped, and I felt it burn its way down my face
hitting the cotton fabric of my pillowcase with a thud
that surely must be audible three blocks away.
I laid in utter stillness, afraid to breath
a soldier in the jungle,
a child under the bed
the snap of a twig
a sniffle
would be suicide.
There is no failure.

So I hunkered down
under my down
and imagined the river sweeping me away
warm and swift
You were holding my hand.
God I hate you.

Just once I wish I'd wake in the morning, safely downstream,
to see your footprints in the snow outside my window.
They'd be tangible.