It can never be the same again.
You think to yourself as you solemnly nod your head along to every painful word she says.
And you can’t look at her lips, at the soft pink that you once kissed late into the night, because you know as soon as you look – they won’t seem the same to you ever again. Not when they’re spitting words like bullets at your waiting and vulnerable heart, not when she’s only making the wound deeper.
She sighs and you know you’ve made her this way, that you’re the cause of this. But you pray she’s not finished, that she has more venom to spit – because as soon as she’s done, you know you might not see her ever again.
You’d rather have the wound bloody and fresh than to agonize in the roughness of the scars it’s left behind. Why can’t she see that you’d do anything for her? That you’d do anything to make her stay?
Except perhaps you know that that’s not true. You’d never try to make her stay, it would make you feel too much like a coward. You’d lose her before you ever lose your pride.
And as you drown yourself in alcohol later that night, you hope and you wish and you pray. Pray that you weren’t this way, that you weren’t so pathetic and unruly – maybe then she’d still want you. Maybe then you’d still want yourself.