Dishwater Eyes

I have been thinking of new ways I can kill the lights,
swimmingly musing the flicker switches in the back of your head
like paying the bills,
and doing the dishes as our children slumber above.

The dishwater is cold, lapping around my heels as I dive
inside your irises and try to figure the prices
of your thoughts;
only to get frustrated with your laziness statistic.

I think I floundered, flapped and drowned;
enveloped in your weariness as I paddled for the shore
of your embrace,
and came up gasping for relief.

The kitchen sink was rusted and overused
from too many table-side taunts,
picking away at my membrane, leaving only
the singular wall of ignorance to my defence.

We blew a fuse, one Sunday, over a bottle of wine
spilt on the floor in a drunken swagger,
and I hid in my ignorance, we could always buy more!
hope and happiness can't be bought though.

So instead of turning off your lights I hid in the shower,
tried to drown myself in dishwater rather than your eyes
and waited for the children to wake up-
Just so we could begin again.