To Love Is to Suffer
We spiral. Words thrown like knives in anger. My stubborn refusal to admit regret; a night and a day wasted.
The rancor survives the night and sticks to us, thick and cloying like the sweet, oily stench of decay. It colors the whole day, turning blue skies a prison grey.
And then we dance around each other, wearing the masks we always wear, but this time concealing nervous discomfort and a childish determination not to apologize first. More psychic scars for the child; a buried breakthrough for a future therapist.
And I retreat to chemistry, as is my wont. It helps me forget, for a little while. Kicking the can down the road. A problem for my future self.
At least I’ll sleep well, without dreams.