She'll Think and Type and Plan. But Never Talk. Never Stand. Weak.

She arranges her life in alphabetical order. Like a child. Like a girl whose hated her job too long. There's silence and typing and her head is pounding. She wants to fall asleep. She wants to scream.

A is for aftermath. That is what this is. The silence due to anger. The atrophy of love.

B, such as bile. Rather than scream or cry or be as awful as she knows she can be she looks away. It builds up. In the back of her throat. waiting. Gagging. Waiting.

C for the obvious crime. But who committed it is the real issue now.

If she could say anything. If she knew the other would listen this is what she'd say:

"Because you look out for my best interests doesn't mean you respect me. You do anything but. If there has ever been anyone I’ve hid myself from it's been you."

And if the other were still silent and both their eyes were still only angry she would continue:

"You've always been the first to tell me that I am wrong. That I need to change. You have been the first to tell me I’m worthless. You don't want anyone to walk on me, to use me, but what have you done? You were always the first. Always the first"

And when the other doesn't answer the question, because it wasn't supposed to be answered, she won't stop:

"You think I am weak. You want me aggressive. But I want you to know that sometimes not saying things, not yelling or screaming, sometimes trying to be the bigger person and just let it slip on past takes just as much strength. Sometimes more. I am not weak. Even though you've been the only one to accuse me of it."

By now she'll be crying. Because anger is unmanageable and it always turns to grief. And such childish sobs will be contradictory to what she says:

"I am not weak. You cannot change me. I love you and I know you Love me but you don't know me anymore. You never have. You never have. You don't understand my fight. How I realize, comprehend and take the blame for every one of my faults. You don't see how good I’ve been at remaining a good person, good heart. You've never heard my morning thoughts. How I’ve never given up. I've never given in. I am here. And everything you've ever felt, I’ve felt ten fold. And blamed only on myself. Because that's what you taught me. That's who you taught me to be. Where you have been numb, I was sensitive. For everything you shut out I took in. If only because you wouldn't have it. Every time I tried to be angry. At you. At anyone. At the world. It could only turn inward. Why? Because I’ve been good enough. Adult enough. Strong enough. Wrong enough to be accountable for my actions. "

By now she'll be choking. Perhaps even screaming. She doesn't know what else to say. For the other has degraded even her happy memories. And only in this silence will the guilt settle in. On both parties. And hopefully it'll be night. They might be driving. So neither will see the others tears. So neither will have to breathe any longer, to touch.

And perhaps the next day She, the one who was wrong (because she is always wrong and that's what she has accepted) will be silent all day. Only venturing a whisper when forced. She'll refuse all food. Make excuses. She'll sip her own blood.

And from that moment on their relationship will be changed. Over in many ways.