Fragile

i.
You’re so--
fragile.
Why didn’t I see this before?
I could break you, snap you in half
with a look, a careless word

and I wouldn’t care if I did.

ii.
Your careful sentences:
“I feel you don’t
appreciate us bending over backwards
to help you.”
Appreciate. You want to feel appreciated.
I’m sorry if I’m not offering
adequate appreciation.
And I would truly appreciate it if you
left
me
alone.

iii.
“Is there anything else you want to say?”
No. I am experiencing a sensation
of extreme reluctance
to continue this any further than it has to go.
It’s fake, don’t you see how damn contrived
we’ve made this all?
Arguments rehearsed in arguments past,
spiderweb sentences spinning, stretching—

snapping—

we don’t mean what we say
but we both knew that already.

iv.
Tell me what you want.
Stop expecting me to see the traps
hidden in your scripted words;
snares tangled in emotion
thin as tissue, ripping, tearing
with the weight of our unsaid accusations—

No.

Stop.

Please.

I’m angry and I’m tired and my sleeves are stained with tears
and you tell me I can’t see any perspective not my own

but I’m not the only one.

v.
Yes.

Fine.

Go.

Go.

I blink hard, let the tears run down my face
for you to see.

I want it to hurt you.

Immature, yes. Both of us.
But I'm fifteen. I have an excuse.