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Budweiser and Bruises
The old saying goes:
"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."
And maybe I was the fool
for believing the honey dropping from your voice
when you told me you'd never show up like this again,
wild, belligerent,
stampeding through my mother's dishes like they had wronged you,
staggering, swaying,
an ocean of alcohol,
and fists,
your frenzy sending all of your AA chips clattering
onto the floor
once again.
But whoever first spoke those words
surely hasn't seen you when you're sober,
how you become a modern day Romeo,
bringing me flowers even after a long day of work,
twirling me around the kitchen
as if we're in our own personal fairytale-
dancing and
smiling and
laughing,
how you kiss away all of yesterday's bruises,
assuring me that was someone else,
until only today matters
once again.
How could I be a fool
when your sobriety is so tender,
and sweet,
when our lives are far too intertwined,
when we've been together so long
we might as well stick it out,
when you always promise you'll get better,
when I always believe you?
Perhaps this proverbial shame
finds its home in both me
and you.
As we dance this corrupted dance
of Budweiser and bruises,
the dance we wrote about a love
that just wasn't enough,
we carry it around with us
like a festering gangrene.
We refuse to acknowledge it
but it seeps into our lives anyway-
poisoning our skins,
our hearts,
our souls,
until there is nothing left to do
but
dance.
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