Too Clever By Half

What he's got, that joshing, it has weathered tough and sinewy with his excercising, and he might not know it, he might still love me and grip me and choke me when he whispers and kisses his love at the back of my neck, but the other actions have lived so long they grew up into a cruelty that makes me not want to breathe anymore when I finally step outside. They laugh at me, when I correct myself, after he talks about fucking. Look at you! Your arms are crossed, your legs are crossed, that tone in your voice when you are sitting there in that chair, alone. You are not fine, not like you said. And I am fine, I am, but he goads me so that I go on a scattered defense for no particular reason, and once I get sucked into the explanations I wring out in my head, I hate myself for airing them so needlessly, and I hate having to stop and look a fool for going on about the dead and dying.