coffee orange sky blue

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow and the glint of the paint in mid-afternoon showers.  I know this.  And still I smear the paint.  What a mess it turned out to be.  Why do we do this to one another?  So harsh, so brutally objective with the emotions of the other.  You push me to say the things I do not want to say, but want to say, but shouldn’t say, but must say because you demand them.  You bring out the brute in me.  I am not, by nature, a biting creature.  Yet here I am, snapping at you with regretful sighs and salt water in my head.  Why do we do this to one another?