You say it’s like being married to a three-year-old—
Trailing behind, cleaning up after them.
I think I could say the same, but I don’t.
So if I whisper, "I’m sorry,"
Or even yell it, for that matter,
You say, "Sorry doesn’t cut it."
So I turn on myself,
And mutter, "I’m the worst."
It’s a tactic from my younger years—
A child’s way of surviving.
Maybe now, we’re in agreement,
No longer fighting.
Instead, you’re mad I’d say such a thing
About the woman you love. I’m sorry again,
But sorry doesn’t cut it. There’s no winning
In a marital fight—just hurt. It’s kinda stupid,
Ya know, hurling our worst at our better half?
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