Thursday, September 2, 2010

Dream of ways to make you understand my pain

“This is the third time this has happened.”
The third time.

The third time I had one too many drinks and let myself think too much and unleashed all my insecurities on him.

We yelled at each for half an hour in the street.

We talked heatedly on my bed for another half an hour.

And then we were laughing.

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” he told me later.

It made me so happy.

And then there it was again.

An hour later in the still dark heat of his bedroom.

One offhand comment, one rude statement that rubbed me the wrong way.
I was crying.

“This night is one big tantrum,” he snapped.

I didn’t answer.


“Can you please get back in bed? I don’t want to wake up my new roommate.”

I crawled back in and then he held my hand.

This morning I felt sick.
What was I doing here?

Was I ruining this?
Was he ruining this?

Are we just too different?

And then a text at 10AM.

“The cleaners picked up my laundry this morning!”
The cleaners I found for him in his new neighborhood.
My neighborhood.

Part of me gravitates toward him because he swallows down all of my crazy and digests it.

And part of me wonders how much of it he’s storing up before it explodes.

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