Snarl

Idle Sunday morning chat.
Sweet talk in the bedroom,
gently swapping notes on future plans,
our hopes and dreams.

Then out of nowhere
a misplaced word sours the air.
A flash of anger -
we both lash out.

Mean words hit their targets hard,
then fall to the floor,
take root,
    grow tendrils.
        Creep round our ankles like trip wires,
trapping us again
- our downfall every time.

Choking foliage wraps around our bodies.
You and I entangled, snarled.
Suffocating, unable to move
until the green monster weakens its hold
and sets us briefly free.

A whisper falls from your tired lip:
'This place.
This place.  Again.'