Another relationship that plays out like a game of tug-of-war. The rope fibers are fragile. Neither can win, and both will collapse. Or, if we are smart, we can use the rope to start a fire.
Cory and I are cold, so we cling to each other for warmth. Let us be intelligent, careful, graceful. But he pays no mind to my suggestions.
Love can be more, I think, than cutting words and frigid silence. Both deal this, in equal measure.
“You lack a spine, an opinion, an interesting thought,” I said.
I feel ill. Stop. My heart beats. Continue.
What fear gathers in corners not properly policed.
The love I offer is conditional, and I know that is due to the belief that I am worthy of only a small fraction of the affection a person can offer.