I’m afraid to speak up
because it gives you another item
to add to the list as to why
we are not compatible.
After all of these years
it must hold quite the caliber.
And whatever I say seems to come out wrong
because you dismiss me as being hateful and jaded
and that you no longer wish to converse with me,
as if depression is another term for being
a hormonal teenager and that it is contagious.
You can’t beg me to tell you what’s on my mind
and then close your eyes during all of the unpleasant parts
because these unpleasantries are my reality.
I’ve learned to only offer edited monologues.
You seem to stick around.
But I feel more empty than when you left.