Peachy

Everything is peachy.

We haven’t made eye contact in ninety-six hours,
but you’ve texted me ten times,
and you’ve only spoken
to ask if your Christmas present
had arrived in the mail.

It’s the third time this week
I’ve come home to cold silence,
your boots blocking the door and your crumbs
dusting the counters.

I’ve seen a lot
of rude people, and I’ve slipped on a lot
of silent ice, but I’ve never
seen anyone try this hard to avoid me,
and I’ve never seen black ice this thick
between two closed doors.

You in your room with the music blaring and me
in the kitchen scrubbing down your pots,
like I’m your mother or something.

You texting me like I need your permission
to have friends come over in my own house,
like you’re my mother or something.

Keep talking
about how great of a friend Ashleigh is,
about how you didn’t like it when I
insulted that boy,
like he wasn’t going to screw you
over in the end anyway.
“Yeah, I didn’t like it when you said that,”
your voice sharp shards of ice.

Well, maybe I didn’t like it when
you didn’t even say thank you
for that Christmas present.

You’d think a pair of girls
once so naïve wouldn’t have
this much bad blood between them,
or this much ice to slip up on,
but here we are.

Everything is peachy, babe.