I am out of black ink,
so this page is full of white space
I should be feeling free, rosy pink
Instead I lack a sense of place
on Thursday he yelled
“Get out, get out, get out…”
I surprised myself and said
“This home is mine,
As much as yours.
I’ve lived here eleven years with you”
Let him put that in his ivory white pipe
And dark smoke it.
Second hand smoke swirls around me.
But I am no longer second hand Rose.
Now that I am full of life again
No longer Stepford wife
He wants to put me out
like his last cigarette.