I'm Not Proud But It's Something

I tell you that we live as if we are stuck on a desert island.
You tell me that I hurt your feelings a lot.
You yell at me in the street at Grand and Lake Shore,
tell me that I am over-sensitive, and not to get that confused with knowing more than other people,
because I don't.

You say calmly that you have never felt remorse for treating me poorly because you're just being you, and it is only my expectations that make indecent. A night of me staring at you lovingly, turns into a shouting match that is making other people nearly as uncomfortable as us.
I say it's not a fair excuse to say that you hate yourself, I won't be easier on you because you think your self-talk is crueler than mine. I yell that it does not come close to as bad, you yell that once again I don't know what I'm saying.
I scream that you don't even care enough about me to be as observant, and sometimes critical, as I am to you, this takes your anger to a different level.

(I did not tell you that I merely used the word obnoxious to describe you due to it being the kindest word that I could come up with in that moment, you're drunk to the point where I feel it's necessary to repeat as many times as possible that I hate you.) You detest that I have become the sort of person who doesn't give up, back down, forfeit. 
The idea of you disliking me changing makes me really sad, so I apologize for ever hurting your feelings, and admit that I never know what I am talking about.

I don't ask you questions about what you would bring on a deserted island, because I am so convinced I know all of your answers.

there's a fine line between communication and... everything else.