you **** it up again.

caller id before she can hide from you
mother’s not done fighting but you don’t know that
she asks about your day and the weather and how is the brulee because she might get that next time
you think there are better things to talk about than overcooked pudding

you’re too much, too mean, chafing around the edges
sharp eyes and sharp tongue, a bed of knives inside
cutting out old scars
******* in the wounds
the words fall out of you, acid reflux slick and sweet in your mouth but you can’t stop-

she packs up her things six minutes later and it hurts more than a slap to the face might have if she were so inclined
and you wonder why you can’t love someone the way you were made to