We fight again.
Curse the moment I stared into your eyes; the eyes that glow in the sun melting into a pool of honey and told you I love how expressive you are. I loathe it now. You're saying something hurtful; your words aren't bitter but salty, and you don't sprinkle, you spill. You know how much I can tolerate, so you add two more spoons and sprinkle in some, like glitter. That's the good part about knowing someone for as long as you've known me, you know exactly how much it would take for it to hurt. It's not the salt that got my insides in a turmoil, it's your face. You told me once, it's not about what you say but how you say it. You prove it now. It's funny how you never practise what you preach. See, that's the thing about being expressive —you express your anger as vividly as your love. I can't look at you right now; your lips curled back in a scowl and your face— your beautiful face I've cradled in my hands, is now scrunched up in disgust, with malice.
I'm not expressive. I'm not expressive at all. I can't form coherent sentences to voice out my thoughts or light up my face when I'm as happy as I feel inside. I rarely know how my face looks in contrast to how I feel. But you do. You say, I'm an open book. I'm not expressive but you call me it. You say, I don't need to make an effort, it's all written on my face. You don't know but you're observant. You insist you aren't, and anyone can read me. Well, if anyone can read me, then why can't you, right now? Can't you see, I don't like the face you're making? Can't you see, it's hurting me to see you like this to the point I hate to see you at all? My lip quivers like a lid ready to jump, encasing so much inside. For the first time, I let out everything inside of me down to the very last drop. I'm breathless now, I had more important things to say than remembering to breathe. And only then, distracted by your silence, I catch myself looking in the mirror behind you. My lips curled back in a scowl and my face scrunched up with so much hatred. You have your eyes fixed on me, forgetting how to blink. I try to swallow the fat lump of realization creeping up my throat. I'm an open book, my mind echoes. I can't match your gaze, my head is turned away, my ears pink in shame. This time, it isn't because I hate you. It is the guilt for what I've turned you into. Your beautiful, beautiful face that has been mirroring me all this time.
