The art of spilling over

There is a break between words
that comes when we fight
a borderland we share alone

quiet wars over who suffers more
who gets the bed, who sleeps on the couch?
how long can we go without looking
to see if someone is letting up?

Is that sound a deliberate slight?
are you telling yourself it’s time to bow out?
I wonder each time, “Is this it?”
ending it all in my head
before he says it

I’m packing boxes in my head
while we’re sitting in bed,

I’m sitting on the curb in my head
even if we’re in bed

I’ll always be inside my head.