personal, poem, poetry, relationship

I hate when we fight

how does every conversation

turn into this mess

where if i know something

you don’t know

you shut down?

is it so unfathomable

that i might

have lived thirty-one years

and learned just enough

to know how much

i don’t know

while you have lived

fifty-three and seem sure

that means you know


i feel like

i am talking to a teenage

who is certain

he doesn’t have anything

left to learn.

is it possible

that when we met

seventeen years ago

i was the grownup?




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