The Final Argument?
I listen to cars and wait. They zoom past our window, the one with the seat you built. Out of pine pieces taken from a wardrobe we didn’t need any more. I painted it white and bought a pillow covered in flowers to make it comfier to sit on. You told me you’d never sit on it as I’d ruined it by making it girlie. Expecting me to sit on flowers, you said.
The sky is giving up the day, changing shifts so it’s the moon’s turn now. You should have been home hours ago. Every argument we have always ends up with you storming out, leaving me with sentences I never got to say. We need to treat each other better rolls in the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you clings to my throat. I wanted to tell you I was drunk, but that wasn’t true. I was just sick of arguing, and he wanted to listen.
Fucking slut you called me. Whore you called me. Slapper you called me. Just like my mother you said. I’m none of those things, but it doesn’t seem like that now. Now what’s happened, has happened. I wait and listen to the cars.