You Break Me

You break me, sometimes.

With the way your eyes darken, you brow furrows.

I watch anger descend across your face like the iron gate of a store at closing time, shutting you off.

Or rather, shutting me off from you.

You break me when you check out, when you storm, when you sink into your shoulders and cannot be found.

But what breaks me more,

I realized,

is how you look at me first when something goes wrong.

How your dark eyes find mine when the slightest hiccup occurs,

how you trust me, implicitly, to be able to fix it all,

to make it all better.

An argument, a question about math.

A cut in your finger, a ketchup stain on your pants.

Something too heavy, something not finished.

Something confusing, something forgotten.

You don’t think, you don’t deliberate.

You appear at my side,

you wave your hand urgently,

you call my name.

And that breaks me the most

because I know I’m not enough,

I’ll never be enough.

I’ll never do everything right,

and sometime I won’t be able to fix anything at all.

But your wide, hopeful eyes, waiting for me to solve it all, fix everything,

those eyes bring me to my knees,

right there where I know Who can fix it all.



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