Headed for a fallout.

I can't think of you without hearing something hiss.

You were always good at hissing. The air rushed through the walls of your teeth with a strange musicality; a soundscape of double-talk and betrayal. I don't know when it was that you became such a monumental hypocrite, but dear, such is life - say 'hello gorgeous' and greet the face in the mirror. We're taking bets on whether you can find yours.

I'm furious at you, really, I am. Bidding me to snap out of this and that - though you're surely an expert on snapping by now, I wish you would bite your tongue; bite it off and never bother me again with your fucking scolding.

Instead, you bray liberally about things that aren't important to either of us anymore. You take what's offered and use it as necessary, discarding the leftovers when they become too heavy for your featherlight loyalties.

The tea's done, the tea's done.

I think I hear the kettle boil.