Sticks and Stones

He Said:

She has the face of an angel, and when she gets mad I need to leave the room. Her anger scares me. She says things that are mocking and cruel and make me want to gag her, strangle her just to shut her up.
I don't know this person dripping venom, I don't want to know her, and I don't want to be the guy who inspires that. I can feel it coming. The change in the air when I've done or said something "stupid". The hostile tone. The disapproving stony stare. The ice cold greeting and the passive aggressive f@*# you kiss hello. The hairs on my skin rise, my neck tenses and before I know it, I grab my coat and I'm out of the door. I don't like her when she's angry. I don't recognize her face.

She Said:

My arm. He said, ‘it tastes like a peach’. Then he kissed it before sinking his teeth in. Playfully. He ran his hand though my sandy hair, wrapping strands of blonde around his tanned thumb. I looked up from the dirty sawdust floor. A towel hung on the rail. A ribbon around my neck came undone. He said, ‘marry me’. I laughed. Then he hummed. If you leave me now, you’ll take away the biggest part of me. And wrote imaginary words along the width of my back. I said, ‘I love you’, and meant it. Until the words died. Until I didn’t mean it anymore. Until the boredom set in. Until I changed my mind.