Your clothes lying on the floor,
Document, record, ammunition.
Perceived slights remembered,
thrown into the next fray like
angry wasps. How did I become
this hard, sharp-tongued woman?
The stings travel to your eyes, I
see the hurt there. I want to pull
this soft spot from inside me and
not smeared upon my sleeve
but in my hand, a beating gift to
show I still love you. Quietly,
I wait, hoping you make
the trip back to me.