Do you think this combination of both poems works fluently: I am the one

who wakes up before the sun

with a knot in my chest

and a house payment screaming louder

than the alarm clock.  

I lace up my shoes

while he lights another lie.

He says he’s “trying.”

Trying what?

Trying my patience?

Trying on job titles like costumes

he never plans to wear?  

I hustle hours sweating through retail purgatory

smiling for strangers

for a paycheck that’s never enough and

wondering which bill to skip this month.

I’m pretending I’m not bleeding

through the seams of my sanity.  

Meanwhile—

he smokes the rent.

Rolls up my hard work

and exhales it

into the ceiling fan

like sacrifice was optional.  

I bring home groceries.

He brings guilt.

I ask for help.

He brings attitude.

I say I’m hurting,

he gets mad.  

I clock out

sore feet, hollow belly,

lungs full of customer service and

quiet desperation.

I come home

at least the dishes are clean.

And he—

he looks up from the couch

grins like a child who colored inside the lines

and says,

“I got a new high score today.”

A.

New.

High.

Score.

I want to believe in marriage.

In “for better or worse.”

But how much worse

am I supposed to swallow

before my soul starts gagging?

He made me dinner the least he could do while 

I finance my own extinction.

To play house

while he plays games.

I am not a bottomless well

of grace and groceries.

Not a rehab center

for the emotionally bankrupt.

Not your free ride

to a new high score.  

Your high score

is not a flex.

It’s a tombstone

for everything we could’ve built

if you gave even a fraction of a damn.

This isn’t love.

This is looting.

And you’re not even subtle.  

So here’s what I know now:

Love without effort

is not love.

Love that punishes pain

is not love.

Love that demands silence

in the face of injustice

is not love—

it’s a hostage situation

with matching wedding bands.

I still want the fairy tale.

But I won’t die in a dungeon

while you dream on the couch.  

This is my voice.

It is not too loud.

It is not too much.

It is not yours to mute.

I am done financing your denial.

Done apologizing for my survival.

Done begging a ghost to come alive.  

If you won’t rise,

I’m removing this crushing millstone. 

Game over