If she could've written her escape

she would have turned the clothes he threw

from the upstairs balcony into pieces of confetti,

a hundred thousand scraps like petals torn off roses until

his barrage of anger was a muffled heartbeat, she would

have caught her desk as he heaved it over the banister,

folded its particleboard sides like origami, turned it

into a throne, a crown, she would've sunk into the living

room floor, past the cracked foundation and into the backyard,

she would not drown, she would build herself a pair of wedding

picture wings, fly over the house while he was throwing their rings,

while he thought she was still lying under everything broken

and sad, she would pour peanut butter (his favorite) into the chimney

and yelling down like a thrift store angel, she would say, I did everything

I could to please you, love.