Dancing blues
I’m tired of this dance.
The pretending.
The quiet nods that make it seem like everything is fine.
You drink.
You lie.
And I clean up after you, again.
What hurts more is that I’ve learned how to live with it.
You’ll go dry for a few days, maybe a week.
You’ll hold me like you remember who I am.
You’ll say you’re sorry with soft hands and glassy eyes.
For a moment, I get the version of you I miss.
But he never stays.
The other you returns.
Sharp.
Careless.
Everything becomes my fault.
The dishes pile up.
The beer cans get shoved under seats and behind toolboxes.
I ask how much you had tonight.
You pause.
Like you’re testing me.
Measuring what you can get away with.
You lie.
And I let myself believe you.
Because it’s easier than the truth.
And just like that,
we start over.
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