I lash out at the ones I love best, show them my worst face, don't hide the outbursts.
I think I lie in wait for such moments when the loved one is near, when he is on the phone and having a bad day, snappish.
It's like a tiger inside of me that's ready to spring.
Listening to his tone, I know he's trying to hold it together, trying to give me the best parts of him.
But I push. It's not enough.
It never is.
And then I roar. Strike with claws. Leave him shredded and bloody.
There is no patience for him.
No loving breath or held tongue.
No fence that keeps me away from his pink underbelly.
I've never understood the phrase about hurting the ones you love. I know it's true, because unquestionably that's what we do. But I don't know why we work so hard being polite and pleasant to a stranger: the gas station attendant, the mechanic, the bank teller; and we spit poison in the tender faces of our closest loves.
Tell me truly: any theories about bad behavior and loved ones? Any horror stories you care to share?