Sometimes.

When you fight with me.

You let it all rip.

From the seams to the core.

And I know.

In that moment,

It just needs out.

It is not you.

It is not me.

So in that moment,

I let the words fly.

I swerve and let them float past me.

Far off.

Forgotten before they were fully spoken.

Heard barely.

Felt never.

And so I let you.

Get it out.

So we can.

Get on.