i remember i used to return home late at night and all the lights would be shut off. dozens of candles would be lit throughout the house, and in that way i would know you were home. i would never call out your name and you would never bother to come out of our room to say hello or make me dinner, but i didn't care. that wasn't what i wanted, anyway.

i'd walk silently to our room and i'd see candles surround the empty walls stained with nothing but dust and lies and hollow promises. you'd always be standing next to the window, staring out of it as if there was a war appearing in front of your eyes. i always reminded you that the real war wasn't outside; it was here, inside, with us. you wouldn't respond and instead would take your cold hands and place them on my cold cheeks and then our cold lips would meet. then you'd take your lips and kiss every scar on my battered skin and in that moment i would forget that you were the one who created them in the first place.

on rare nights you'd even tell me you loved me, and we both knew you were lying but i'd murmur 'i love you too' and we'd act as if we were meant to be. but most nights we would let the unspoken speak it all; there was nothing about me that you liked, and nothing about you that i liked. but there was a certain high in hating and loving each others' presence, so like addicts we kept meeting in our same place -- here, underneath my roof that once was yours too. and i know the memories of us that live in this house would be too much for you to breathe in all at once, so you'd keep the lights turned off and let the darkness consume us the way hatred drowned our love.