The Looping Thread

I am so tired of looking up

from the floor of our arguments,

tracing the high, sharp edge

of your condescension.

I have been right here, texting you all day.

Answering, replying, giving you attention,

saying yay to what you built,

only for you to decide it wasn't enough.

Because I didn't cheer the way you wanted,

you chose to feel abandoned.

You hand me an accusation wrapped in sarcasm,

blaming me for a crime I never committed.

And when I offer a genuine bridge:

It wasn't my intention, I'm sorry you felt that way

your fragile, arrogant ego snaps.

You mock my words back to me,

dripping with that cheap, defensive sarcasm.

You claim you are just "sharing a feeling."

But you didn't share a feeling;

you built a trap.

You want the right to attack,

to pout and twist and blame,

spinning us round and round in circles

until my head pounds from the noise.

I type until my fingers bleed into the keys,

begging for the looping thread to break.

I just want this to stop.

And for the first time in this relationship,

you finally agree.

Ariadne (1898) by John William Waterhouse.

Ariadne—the princess who placed the thread into a hero’s hands, guiding him safely through the labyrinth, only to awaken alone on the shore after he sailed away.