I was wearing violet mascara on the day you left.

 

A violet river flooded my face,

 

and discovered home within my left clavicle.

 

The mascara stained everything in proximity,

 

as if this particular emotional breakdown

 

needed its own trademark:

 

obnoxious purple streaks on the wall,

 

on your t-shirts, on my mother's persian rug.

 

You always knew how to make a scene.

 

I laughed and cried about it on the bedroom floor.