Fill Ted’s food and water bowls. Pour a glass of white wine.

Turn the bath spout. Shower while the tub fills

to avoid sitting in your own filth. Open the blinds,

turn off the overhead lights. Notice the setting sun,

the first night color has intermediated the dimming darkness

of sunsetless nights in weeks. Step into the tub. Turn on

the jets. Pinch the layer of fat atop your hips.

Remember how he, and others before him, gripped

your hip bones like handlebars, like he wanted to rip

them clean off, but settled for the bruises,

for the proof. Look at your stomach; trace the area

where your uterus lies underneath. Wonder

what you would do if there was a fetus in there.

What you could do. Watch the fireworks.

out the window. Think about how one is necessary

in your future home. Notice the visibility,

the comparative whiteness, of your boobs,

bobbing like apples, to be consumed by anyone

who wants them. Try aimlessly to push them

underneath, out of the cold air, again and again,

until you make a game of it like they are toys.

(In a way they are but you are not the main player.)

Take a deep breath followed by a sip of wine.

Drift off. Awake shivering when Ted knocks

over the glass. Jump up, unplug the drain.

Dripping on the tile, wrap the too-large

pink robe around your body. Use it

to mop the wine, grateful you didn’t choose red.

Dry, moisturize. Let Ted out to pee.

Pour a new glass. Write this poem.

Libby Gerdes is an emerging writer living in rural Kentucky. She graduated from Murray State University with a BS in Professional Writing and a BFA in Creative Writing in 2023.