So now you call me grossly insulting

So now you call me grossly insulting.

The phrase hangs like a curtain drawn tight,
Where once resided a casual saltiness,
You find only venom in the fading light.
It’s a costume you’ve tailored to fit the occasion,
A heavy-set adjective, dark and profound,
To cover the tracks of a fractured persuasion
And bury the truths we had built on the ground.

"Grossly"—the word has a certain finality,
A syllable-shelter for pride that’s been swayed;
It shifts the whole tint of our shared reality,
Until every kindness begins to feel frayed.
Was I gentler before? Was the bitterness missing?
Or did you just tire of the mirror I held?
While we were laughing and talking and kissing,
The seeds of this "insult" were silently swelled.

You’ve armored yourself in a victim’s high fashion,
Recasting the sharp for the sake of the blunt,
Replacing the heat of our old, jagged passion
With a measured and cold, intellectual front.
If honesty stings like a salt-heavy gale,
And clarity strikes with a punishing sound,
Then weigh out my words on your delicate scale,
And watch how the truth keeps me tethered to ground.

So take up your shield and your polished resentment,
If plainness offends you, then let the blow land.
I won’t offer sugar for your false contentment,
Nor soften the edges of where I still stand.
If "grossly" is how you must label the breaking,
Then wear the word well as you turn from the room;
I’ll keep the raw truth of the mess we were making,
While you find your peace in a quieted gloom.