It’s a good thing that I used to do ballet, because living with him was being forced to crack a dozen eggs,
Then tiptoe over the shells.
Shards of “it’s your fault” snuck into the soles of my feet,
Pointed fingers and flinches,
Silent treatments turned into roars.
My words were so easily melted and moulded into a knife that I had apparently stuck into my own back.
Sometimes I would try and take the knife out,
Scrape up the yolks and whites off our apartment floor,
And make an omelette for him.
He would say, “That’s not what I’m hungry for”.
Today, I know.
Had I just:
Shut up harder,
I would still be dancing on eggshells,
Choreographing my life around him.
If this situation sounds familiar to you, here’s where you can access support: