One, two, three,
The plates crashed hard against the wall.
She stood in the center, eyes closed tight.
Four, five, six,
Glass shattered in a ring around her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Seven, eight, nine,
The porcelain storm kept coming.
Ten.
The final shard finds its mark.
It bites into her skin, a sharp, red sting—
There is blood, but oddly, she doesn’t feel it.
The numbness is a shield.
Inside, she is a landslide of shaking nerves,
But she stands like a statue in the debris.
She cannot break, because she is the floor
On which the children stand.
Millypede 
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