You hate all strawberries and “especially the red ones.” Spit the sugared heart out like it was poison. You hate wine too. Said it tastes like a “blood jury.” The first time you said it, I was confused. I thought you meant a different word but turns out you meant “blood jury” because you hate being judged for hating it. You’re funny like that, it’s what I opposite-of-hate about you. You would call our bedroom a “tiny box,” doctors “death givers,” bean sprouts “long rice.” The quotations marks I just used, you would call them “flying commas.” You hate using their actual names just because. The same way we hate couples who say “Now I love the things they love.” Because we’re us, because we’re two flying commas.

Because here I am in our tiny box. We are those couples. I hate the things you hate. Sesame. Blood juries. The long rice of your limb, your sugared heart. Yes, I hate the death givers too. Your flying coma. And like you, I mix my words up now. Use are instead of were. Our instead of mine again.