Vanilla Ice Cream

The day I come home bleeding, standing sideways
against the door, my roommate buys a carton
of ice cream at the store and declares this the day
she loved something other than chocolate. i'd cleaned
it up before she carried her plastic bag inside. wiped
the tiny crimson polka-dotted trail up the wooden
steps and to the bathroom clean. i'd sat there for three
whole minutes. for another hour after that. staring.
holding the frosted bar of soap in one hand
until it fell against the tub, watching the chalky trail
it made as it swooped along the basin and settled quietly
by the drain, and I couldn't help but to
picture the artistic moment it must be. the sunlight,
pouring in the window as if it were a warm day,
as if the sun had my permission to shine in this room
that was meant to be dark, the cross-like shadow
of the window pane hanging crooked
on the opposite wall. and me, the faint trails along my face
to match the bathtub as it dried. 'This is a special day,'
she said after she took a bite of the bright white
ice cream with a plastic spoon. 'I never thought this day would come.'