We are cowards.
I am a coward for not saying this to your face,
and you are a coward for trying to drown your problems.
But the problem with your problems,
like most people's problems,
is that your problems are sponges.
They expand and grow
as you pour more on them,
until they adapt and learn to breathe underwater—
growing more and more saturated
until they begin to drip,
leaving a stinking, sticky, ***** mess behind you.
Your problems have left a smudge across our floor,
smeared from where I slipped on them,
from where she walked into them,
from where we tried to step over them,
but missed.
The problem with your problems
is that they are not yours anymore.
Now they are mine.
They are hers.
They are ours.
But only you can clean up
the mess on our kitchen floor.