her: when we fight, why do you always want to run and hide?
him: i don’t like dealing with it.
her: the problem doesn’t go away.
him: i know.
her: it’s gets even bigger when you come back.
I have been writing since I was a teenager. It’s the only way I ever really knew how to get my feelings and my thoughts out. Looking at this poem makes me a little sad though. How did I put up with communication like that for nearly two decades? I am way too patient for my own good.