She thought there would be space–an hour here, an hour there–someplace to put the things, the words, the blankets that belonged to her. She tries to greet the mornings with pleasant indifference, but still all that comes is the burning anger of slammed kitchen cabinets, broken light bulbs, and more and more maple oatmeal down the garbage disposal, all diluted among the milk, the thrown away mashed peas and carrots from the burning night before, the soured orange juice, and the grit of wasted coffee grounds. What a mess she makes. When the cries come, something falls in her throat. It is her voice pushing its way closer to the center of her. Some words are rooted in love. Some words are stolen. Some words are trapped in her. At least this way she does not scream. She cannot. She is, as they all know, quiet. She does not lift herself from the floor. She cannot. The crumbs fester on the counter like all the specks of leftover ground beef that cover the stove like all the dead cockroaches under the dishwasher. The putty knife could not scrape them away. They are thick, and layer upon layer, immovable.