‘You were sweet

I got mean

And when we fight I refuse to eat

You’re sensible 

I’m hating it

What a good job that your mother did.’

 Somehow it’s more jarring to have her not screaming. She’s sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath her and hands folded in her lap. Every word she says is careful, is thought out and calculated. It’s odd, because this isn’t how you do things. She screams, you scream. She screams some more and you break a door, punch a wall, shatter some glass— she storms out and spends the night with her ex. Rinse, repeat. 

She’s not yelling. And its unnerving. Its knocking you off-kilter. Makes you chest pound, makes the hairs on your arm stand and—

“I can’t do this anymore.”

That was familiar at least. Not the way it was being said of course. (Usually it was accompanied by hands pushing you back against the wall, spit flying and hitting you square in the face. Usually she was crying and pulling at her hair and telling you she hated you, you ruined her, she wishes she never met you—) This time she looks you in the eye as she says it. She doesn’t get up from the couch. That too is unfamiliar. Usually she crowded your space. Always in your face, a hand against your shoulder, a head against your chest, hands holding yours and digging her nails in your skin—

“I can’t— God, I’m so tired. I’m so tired of loving you and, and hating you. Can’t you see we’re ruined.”

Of course you could. You knew love wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not this…rough. This turbulent. You knew what she did with her ex every time she ran to her— you knew that you were far too mean sometimes. That if you loved her you’d only uplift her. You knew this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. They weren’t always like this. Things used to be sweet, she’d ask about your day, you’d ask about hers. You’d surprise her with gifts, with dates and movie nights. You wonder when it all changed. When the music turned to noise.

“I’m done.” she says again, and she’s looking at you like she’s expecting you to have a rebuttal, like she’s waiting for you to get loud, get angry—

But you only feel tired. Deep-rooted and chilling. It’s hard to talk to her when she isn’t screaming at you to leave her alone and go die. It’s hard to talk to her when you aren’t calling each other names, when you aren’t bringing up the fact that she was cheating and she wasn’t bringing up the fact that you were a child in the body of a twenty-five year old woman. It’s hard to tell her that you don’t want to lose her. That the violence was better than being alone. That you didn’t care if she cheated as long as she came home, that you loved her and hated her too. 

She shakes her head, “I’m done.”

You weren’t ready to let go.