Don't talk to me. Sitting in the back of my head, a heavy blanket of resentment and pain and woeful selfpity leaks its bitter liquids into the creases of my eyes. A single word or a look askance: Your constant humour at my anger, your incompetence to complete the stupidest, tiniest task, your ability to enjoy yourself as I sit in shackling loathing. Learn how to lock the door behind you and tread quiet when you are near me.
Feel free to leave your clothes in my room; scattered about in crumpled piles of discarded journeys. And I will smile and reply sweetly with false love on my tongue and sour anger in the back of my throat when you return days later to find them gone and ask where they are. I cannot think as fast as you do. Your words and ability to mock are faster and harder and they bruise me. Flick at me with sarcasm or spit your resentful replies to my smug face and inside I'll smile at your stamps and shouts while my blood curdles into momentary hatred and scores lines in my skin. Ugly lines. That nonetheless screech to my reflection, "I've won!"
One day a fire will burn itself out in my heart and your inability to respect me will drop from my lips like dry, grey ashes. Fill my mouth with cool water to wash out the taste of the pointless, scorching coals. I am tired of this anger and lack of forgiveness. And yet my fists still hold tight to the ripped threads of former hurts, and still dip them in the blood of recent cuts only to brush the lines of "Remember last time?" across my arms, and still collect more and more as the weeks go flying by.
Bitter tears of anger. Clenched fists of resentment. Heavy headaches of self-loathing. Leave me to curse my way through these next few days. Because that'll help.