~ Written by Danielle N. Bilski ~
You see
Written by Danielle N. Bilski
You see;
Your lies are yours to tell,
Your truth is yours to find,
Your heart is yours to let break,
Your eyes are yours to blind.
You see;
Your pain is yours to feel,
Your love is yours to give,
Your mistakes are yours to make,
Your life is yours to live.
Don’t tell me lies,
Your truth is not mine,
My heart is unbreakable,
In darkness my light shines.
Don’t try to give me bruises,
Your love is not mine to lose,
Words cannot be unspoken,
Your life is what you choose.
Tell me;
When all the risks are taken,
When all the stones are thrown,
When all is said,
Nothing’s done,
Tell me;
Will you still be wandering,
Wondering where you went wrong?
You see;
By then I’ll be,
Good and gone,
Like a star at night,
Eclipsed by the morning sun.
Because you see,
You see,
Now you see,
This was never about me.
His wife has been asking him for months to quit drinking. He’d never thought she’d leave him because of it, but that morning she did. She smelt the pungent smell on his breath as she puts his plate of eggs on the table in front of him.
‘That’s it!’ They were the last words he hears her say.
The front door slams.
He eats his eggs in peace and quiet, then gets up and pours himself a hair of the dog from the bottle in the top cupboard – the one she has never been able to reach without a step ladder.
He dresses for work and drives his Falcon to the plant ten minute away.
The day passes in a blur, from car to work, to car, to pub.
He’s the last customer to leave the pub, around two o’clock, for all he cares. The car’s within meters and he fumbles his keys from his shirt pocket. Losing his footing on the kerb, he stumbles. Thud!
His head cracks the glass of the driver’s window like a misdirected soft ball. He bites his tongue attempting to quell the tears welling in his eyes. His vision becomes even more blurred; if that’s possible.
A rising tide of failure forces its way up from the pit of his stomach, making him vomit his dignity into a disgusting, cream lump beside the front tyre. A putrid stench of rum and inadequacy emanates, making him gag.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at the window. His spider-webbed reflection shakes its head. A voice says ‘Will ya quit mucking around and get your shit together! You’re the one holding the bloody keys!’ but his mouth isn’t moving and the street is deserted.
He doesn’t try the keys in the lock. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the main street, stumbling and swaying most of the way home, alone.
Three days later, he puts a plate of slightly burned eggs on the table in front of his wife. While she unfolds her napkin and tucks it into the collar of her blouse, he goes to the top cupboard, takes hair of the dog, pouring its contents into the sink. When she smiles at him, he knows, by God, he won’t be following it down the drain.
He’s never really liked dogs, anyway.
My time with you
©2015 Danielle N. Bilski