“Why couldn’t you just tell me?” she whined. She could think of nothing to say in her defense. As he’d put it, the affair had been unavoidable. She had made it so. She was self-concerned, impossible to live with, he’d never felt loved. But his never telling, never letting on that he was that unhappy? That leaving was an option in their marriage?

“You were too fragile, like a powder keg ready to go off at any moment. I didn’t tell you because it was the right thing to do.”

She stared, defenseless again. Muted. The despair and guilt like Drano coursing through her arteries and bleaching her from inside out. The pain so great that she could hardly feel her knees and feet as she stood there. Standing, like a scolded child face to the wall. It’s my fault, she thought. It’s my fault.

Look, Asshole:

she never needed your pity.

Coward:

coulda tapped out, but oh she

was so fragile. She?

What girl needs your burnt-toast-with-

watercress-salad love? Your fifteen-

minute fucks. Your pimpled back.

Your recent boils.

The sixth plague

of Egypt on your body.

Had she pitied you,

she’d have left.

But now, I don’t know.

She looks like all

she needs is a chair,

an erotic novel, and an

orange to leave you.

 

 

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One thought on “It’s not me, it’s you

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