"It's not beautiful to be tragic"
He tells me idly as he watches himself in the rearview mirror.
"It doesn't make you special."
I almost spit out my strawberry milkshake when he says this.
He painted me this way.
All heavy eyes and shaky hands.
The tires squeal under the weight of silence
And he rolls his eyes to fill the space.
"You did this"
I tell him,
"You made me miserable."
He laughs,
But his voice breaks before he can finish.
"Look at me"
I sob,
"Look at the mess you made of me."