the sounds of confrontation

most often silence. fists clenched, lips raw and bleeding from nervous habits, shadowed faces. standing in front of you, arms folded, waiting for someone to break the quiet. you? me? most definitely not me. all the language in our body, our mouths refusing to speak. the stillness is heavy with blame. silent treatment is what we call it, fear it what it usually is. don’t make me the bad guy when it’s your fault, it’s easier if we just skirt around the issue. but the pounding rhythm in our heads: it’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault—like a marching bound parading to war.


sometimes loud. very loud. doors slamming, hearts racing, voices raising. grudges wait expectantly between the lines, ready to shove their monstrous heads into the conversation and bring up the past. standing nose-to-nose, trying to make you to see eye-to-eye. it never works. stubbornly clinging to my innocence, wringing out justification like a worn-out cloth. weak excuses flying from both our lips, colliding in midair, folding into themselves, disappearing as quick as they came. 

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