Pyrrhic Victory

The receipt was on the table like a jagged little knife.

I caught you in the logic of your lie.

I spent the morning carving at the edges of our life

until there was no room for a reply.

You didn't even argue, you just slumped inside your chair,

the fight went out of you and hit the floor.

You looked at me with something that was closer to despair

than any anger we had felt before.

A half-eaten plate of cold toast sits between us on the wood,

the butter turning yellow, hard and thick.

I won the point and proved the thing I said I understood,

but the winning makes me feel a little sick.