TELL ME STRAIGHT

You haven't touched your coffee.

It's been cold for almost an hour.

You keep turning your phone face down.

I know. You don't have to.

You ask me if I'm tired.

I say, "A little,

yeah."

Then you look out of the window like there's something better

there.

Don't take the long way around it.

I'm already here.

Just look at me

and tell me.

Tell me straight.

Don't make it gentle.

Don't say "maybe"

when you mean you're gone.

Tell me straight.

I can take it.

Just don't hold me

like there's nothing wrong.

You say I matter to you.

I know. That's not the question.

You say we've both been different.

I don't need another lesson.

Your hand reaches across the table.

For once, I move mine away.

If you're leaving, I need to hear you say it without making

me help you say it.

Don't tell me I'll be fine.

Don't tell me what I deserve.

Just give me the sentence

you've been swallowing all night.

Tell me straight.

Don't make it gentle.

Don't call it timing

if you just don't want me now.

Tell me straight.

Let your voice shake.

I can cry about it later.

I need the truth right now.

I'll cry in the kitchen later.

I'll call somebody. I'll get through the night.

But please don't kiss my forehead

and make me thank you

for breaking my heart politely.

Come on.

Look at me.

Say it.

Tell me straight.

No more gentle. Say my name

and say you're letting go.

Tell me straight.

I'll still hate it.

But at least I'll know.

At least

I'll know.

Your coffee's cold.

Mine too.