The thing about your ways and my ways being so alike is that we like to pretend we don't know it. But I've seen that face you make when you'd like to smack me in the mouth. I've seen that face a million times, and I've made it a million too. You and I, looking at each other, are like a particularly vile version of a mirror.
You don't write your letters, you grind them out as though you were armed with a mortar and pestle instead of a pen and paper. I scratch mine into flesh with heated needles. But the end result, it's the same every time.
I told you about one of the times he punched me in the mouth, about how I couldn't even hate him for the act itself, because at least he'd finally done what he'd been threatening for so long. I didn't respect him for it, never that, but I was relieved that the wall had finally broken and we could stop pretending that violence wasn't actually the answer. You asked how I didn't hate him for it, and you smiled with that knife in your eyes when I told you that there are some actions beyond hate.
If the doorbell were to ring right now, and you were on the other side, would I gasp like a fish for words, eyes wide, mouth open? I would. I would curse and founder and wholly lose my cool. That would be what you were expecting, and you would be amused, and you would offer whatever you held in your hands like a consolation prize, pretending like you hadn't planned it this way all along. You're tricky and clever, but I know your ways because they're my ways too.
No comments:
Post a Comment