He got real good at pretending to believe her, and just bottled up all of her lies.
It was so easy at first, little cuts here and there, but nobody dies.
Occasionally he’d open the lid and sprinkle some onto a wound.
Wince and hold back the tears, then crawl in bed, and become her Big Spoon.
Frequently the bottle would fill, he would carefully empty it another.
He made sure not to spill any on his clothes that he wore, while helping her to care for her dying mother.
He placed it at eye level but hidden, on the purposely cluttered shelf.
Hoping somebody would notice, so he could then deny it and refuse their help.
Dust began to gather, and they had almost made it an entire year.
But with every new wound the bottle would call, like a ringing in his ear.
He tried to avoid it, he swore to never open it again.
Thats until he caught her with him, or shall I say “them”.
And just like that, all at once, each cut came roaring back.
He fell in pain, reaching for his chest as if having a heart attack.
Never before in his life had he felt agony this much.
The wounds expanded, like two lovers, longing for each other’s touch.
“I can fix this” he thought, as he drug himself across the cold hard floor.
Aching for the bottle that had healed him so very many times before.
One swipe at the shelf, and everything came tumbling down.
The sight of this rain-like destruction was almost enough to upturn his frown.
Squarely on his lap the bottle landed, barely missing his head.
And he thought, “shall I shower in this misery, or should I drink it instead?”