the problem with lover fights

is how

they throw stuff at you

in gobbets

huge arcs of flame

wanting to strike

find the wounded niche

where the scold can take hold

& they find me walking

I tell myself

them too

I’ll sit & listen to whatever you got

but start this screaming throwing stuff

& I’m gone

but they never believe

until

the room is empty

I’ve had them chase me down the street

throwing clothes out of windows

doing the c’mere come back

so I can hurt you more tango

calling me chickenshit for running away

but after that first corner

I can’t hear them anymore

I find a quiet bar

& wait for peace to come