Round One
Round One
It all starts off with a simple question. A semi-serious answer. It lashes back at her. Angry words. Curled in an intimate embrace, she is shrugged off like an unwanted article of clothing when it gets too hot. Oh no she doesn't fit anymore, throw her out. No sentimental value for this person.
"A dog that bites the hand that feeds it because it's been hurt too many times before".
It gets harder and harder each time because each time, they lose a little bit more common ground. Each time they lose a little bit more fight in them, a little bit more of what they had in the first place, what was worth it to keep on going, to keep on making up after each fight. Every time they make up, there is tears but a little less togetherness. Sure, she fits into his embrace as perfect as the day they first met (outside in the cold, he gave her his jacket and they hugged to the beginning of a new friendship), but really, he is tired too, she knows. He is too tired to fight the fight, too tired to save the sinking ship because it's just not as important anymore.
Slam. The door rattles on its hinges, rattles her down to her bone. Pinprick of guilt at his anger, pinprick of sadness, pinprick of hurt, pinprick of her own anger. They will go to sleep together alone tonight. Not alone together. That was better, she thought. Finding comfort alone together, at least she had a warm body by her side even if she knew it wasn't promised to be there every night. Now they are under the same room, just a few feet apart, but so far away separated by a wall of rage, of slammed doors, of clicking cellphone games, of apathetic typing. Good night good night.
It all starts off with a simple question. A semi-serious answer. It lashes back at her. Angry words. Curled in an intimate embrace, she is shrugged off like an unwanted article of clothing when it gets too hot. Oh no she doesn't fit anymore, throw her out. No sentimental value for this person.
"A dog that bites the hand that feeds it because it's been hurt too many times before".
It gets harder and harder each time because each time, they lose a little bit more common ground. Each time they lose a little bit more fight in them, a little bit more of what they had in the first place, what was worth it to keep on going, to keep on making up after each fight. Every time they make up, there is tears but a little less togetherness. Sure, she fits into his embrace as perfect as the day they first met (outside in the cold, he gave her his jacket and they hugged to the beginning of a new friendship), but really, he is tired too, she knows. He is too tired to fight the fight, too tired to save the sinking ship because it's just not as important anymore.
Slam. The door rattles on its hinges, rattles her down to her bone. Pinprick of guilt at his anger, pinprick of sadness, pinprick of hurt, pinprick of her own anger. They will go to sleep together alone tonight. Not alone together. That was better, she thought. Finding comfort alone together, at least she had a warm body by her side even if she knew it wasn't promised to be there every night. Now they are under the same room, just a few feet apart, but so far away separated by a wall of rage, of slammed doors, of clicking cellphone games, of apathetic typing. Good night good night.
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