Every time we fight I get just a little bit smaller,
every word you say becomes a question mark
carved inside of me – an incision of doubt made permanently.
My voice, once explosive and strong, has been reduced to
a desperate whisper in a world full of noise;
and when zoomed in to our private universe, I am just static –
a snow of blurry, white dots against a background of black
that you don’t pay attention to.
I am frantic and pervasive, against your calm and apathy,
fantastical and furious, against your logic and invariability.
I don’t know how to love you. This battle has hardened me.
The ground we used to stand on is shaking;
the earth beneath us has become the jagged, yellow teeth of
a monster designed to swallow me whole,
while you sit on the precipice of what has become broken,
rigid and unchanged, stable and unhindered,
as if the chaos of the apocalypse isn’t enough
to make a dent in that armour of yours.
There’s a part of you I can’t reach,
no matter how far I stretch myself.
A gulf I keep trying to cross, on my hands and knees,
bruised to the point of collapse –
I scream for you one last time: