Mars In Cancer: Crybaby Combat

You said it was a joke.
I laughed.
Then I filed it under “someday I’ll flinch when you say that again.”
I remember the color of the room, the vibration in your voice, the micro-wince when I didn’t flinch back.

You don’t understand.
Every. Emotion. Makes me cry.
Anger? Waterworks.
Frustration? Rivers.
Love? Niagara Falls through my mascara.

I don’t throw hands.
I throw crescents of myself carved out with the claws I keep in cashmere.

My silence is a sacrament.
My forgiveness is ceremonial.
I hydrate because rage is dehydrating.

You hurt me Tuesday.
I grieved it Thursday.

I knitted a weighted blanket out of the fallout and made sure you had one, too.
So you’d be safe from the version of me that never says anything but always remembers.

I hold grudges like fine wine in a climate-controlled vault.
I dust them lovingly.
Catalog them in cursive.
Serve them with aesthetic appetizers and passive-aggressive playlists.

And then — there’s this body.
You think I’m soft?
You should feel me when I’m furious.
I ride like I’m reclaiming territory.

Clingy? Nah.
I’m conquering.
My hips have emotional motives.

My mouth? A manifesto.
I don’t moan — I whisper things that will make you squirm in a meeting at 9:15am on Monday.

You thought my softness was surrender?
That’s adorable.
Soft just means I memorized the blueprint of your soul before I razed it emotionally with a long hug and no follow-up.

So no, I won’t yell.
I’ll drip venom into lullabies.
I’ll rearrange the room so the lighting’s flattering when you finally realize you lost me.

And when I walk away, you’ll think it was your idea.
But baby, I already packed the blankets.