Something was broken.
I slammed into a wall and the porcelain plates slid to the floor as the glass shelves inside crashed together. I want you to know that I tried to walk away; I tried to seal this room off, I tried to protect it from this but locked doors aren't protected from earthquakes. I have to keep my hands over my mouth to keep the broken pieces from falling out. I have to swallow back the jagged shards and when I talk I can hear my voice scraping through the glass at the back of my throat where syllables and conjunctions got lost. Every sentence became a fragment held together with commas. I was a dotted line and every day the space between the dashes grew larger.