I didn't smash it hard enough. It fell like ice that trickles down the window sill. The acid scorched the ivory paint. It stained; the anger had not passed. It enveloped in me the tears that somehow crept along the wooden floor as if to be nourished with some mere mortal enrichment. Virginia would have been proud.

I didn't smash it hard enough. I should have broken it to bits. The blasted artistic attempt of some unknown European endeavor who dared to bless me by selling his virtue to a lady. Presenting me with a gift of hope for a wedding.

And it was. The faces I can't remember, the songs I could not sing very well and the dance, the dance that had me upon your feet. The food made me wish I could feel the liquor that chose not to relinquish my body of it's doubts.

In the dream the diamond was missing. Did it ever really exist to begin with? I still wear it on my hand, like a house upon the land. But this house is not my home. We married anyway. The coffee filled the morning air with such despair it did not matter who would come or go and then the father died. Yet, I still love.

I didn't smash it hard enough. I could no longer bed with you who would not let me bear your child. Who sought to chain me with words as sharp as the suffragette's statement. Your resentment of an intellectual artist would baste in you with no appreciation for the juices which would eventually savor your taste.

I didn't smash it hard enough.

- Stevi Lee