I awoke this morning to find them wrapped around each others throats, digging half-moon impressions of hate into intermingled flesh.
Each poisoning the other with spat out histories of missed opportunities and overwhelming regret, laying blame on one another's shoulders until their spines had buckled and snapped under the weight, accusing one another of stealing their dreams and ripping them to shreds.
He said she was a serpent coiled around his neck, sucking the life out of him.
She said he was a greedy and bloated beast who took piece after piece of her soul until there was nothing left but crumbs.
Over breakfast, while I sipped freshly squeezed orange juice and felt each of my tears roll down my cheek and land on the tablecloth,
they continued to tug at the loose threads of their patchwork love while it slowly unravelled with each bitter word and muted scream.
I ate my breakfast while my imagination threw stones at glass houses.
As I dressed for school I could still hear their argument reverberating through the floorboards, even over my music.
I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my tongue until it bled.
When I left the house she had locked herself in the bathroom and was weeping quietly, choking down her tears.
He was in his office within a blizzard of angry paper and broken books.
My tongue was still bleeding.
(c) Adam Cheshire 05/11/01
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