Anger

After a scene where I unleashed my anger, unjustified, I am small. I can actually sense my loss of stature. My clothes metaphorically swim on me. I have hurt her. Not physically, but in her heart. Tears. Some days, I am not the man I want to be. Shame was my sleep companion last night.

Love makes us more vulnerable. Open. It’s easier to find weak spots when someone shows them willingly to you. They want you to see them. They entrust them to you.

I’ve earned my guilt. It’s legitimate, not some short-lived imposter. It’s going to stay around for a while.

Nothing sears into you like a face that transforms from a beautiful smile, meant solely for you, into pain and sadness. I’ve inflicted that.

“You didn’t sleep well,” she says in response to my apologies.

All the more reason not to have gone after her. Anyone can be civil when things are running smoothly. The real you emerges when they aren’t.

The damage is done. How much? I don’t know. It was a surprise attack. She has to take stock.

The bitterness between couples I see in literature is often more entertainment than a teaching mirror. When it’s real, there is nothing entertaining about it. Too much is at risk. I tremble a bit this morning, looking over the edge of the cliff. Love can be killed. If there’s any lesson or reminder to this, it’s that.