The Night Fighters

Exceptionally irate, she kicked as hard
as she could, and watched as the glass rained down
on the wobbly, wooden porch. She looked at
a large, remaining piece of glass in the
window, sharply pointing to the right, toward
the front door, as if warning us. The man
who had enraged her, whom she was so deeply
in love with, burst through the door, his eyes just
as fierce as hers. She kept her gaze on the
glass around her feet. Her body trembled
as a cool breeze swept in, but it was her
love-laced rage combined with the vodka flowing
through her veins that really forced the spasm.

The porch was almost totally dark, except
for the thin sliver of light peering from
behind the sheet they hung over the window,
their makeshift curtain. The wind made the shards of
glass shake, and the light reflecting off them
was almost beautiful. They looked like stars,
a fantastic galaxy somehow brought
down to earth because of her otherworldly
sense of hate for someone she loved equally
as much. She looked at the scars on her arms,
some fresh and some old, looked at what she'd done
to a house she had worked so hard to maintain,
and despondent tears spilled from her eyes.

"Happy birthday to me," was her sad
whisper, as her body awkwardly swayed
the usually comical dance of the
inebriated. In response, he slammed
the door and locked it. My friend and I
exchanged somber glances, standing outside on
that wooden porch, not knowing what to do next.