“First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald
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, hold back the tears, then crawl in bed, and become her Big Spoon.
Frequently the bottle would fill, he would carefully empty it into another.
Making sure not to spill any on the 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 someone would notice, so he could 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.
That is until he caught her with him, or shall I say “with them”.
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 dragged 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 destruction was almost enough to upturn his frown.
Squarely in his lap the bottle landed, barely missing his head.
And he thought, “shall I shower in this misery, or drink it instead?”