For me with love and squalor
"It’s always about you", he said sulkily.
I usually shrug off his comments. Else they would mean too much. But this one refused to be. Shrugged off, I mean.
Is it now? Always about me?
Remember the time I stopped reading books at night because I was too tired? It was the exhaustion of entertaining you.
Remember the time I stopped cooking? It was of the taste that never was your mother's.
Remember the time I stopped talking long hours with my friends over the phone? It was of the time that never was there after you.
Remember the time I stopped writing? It was to squash your fear of being replaced.
Remember the times I refused to be hurt when you flirted with other women? It was to escape from hating you.
Yes. It’s always about me. It is the only way to stay on.