Don't think that I've forgotten--
don't think that I don't know,
that you would've sung praises
to the Devil
down below
if it meant you could have
hidden in the spice cabinet
for a moment longer,
mingling with Rosemary
and "unripened tomatoes"
while stealing my Thyme.
But did you care?
And were you there?
When the jowls
a four-legged curmudgeon
sunk into the pillows of
Dan's three year old cheeks?
Weren't you the one
on the other side of my frantic phone call--
his bewildered gaze immobilizing me;
as I wallowed in a puddle of stupor and shock?
And weren't you the one
who shrugged through your words,
nonchalantly reminding me why rubbing alcohol
was invented as I watched
droplets of scarlet trickle down his lips,
eventually catapulting themselves off of his chin?
And haven't I always been the one
sprinting for the wet rag and band-aid?
And aren't I the one that tucks him in at
night and ruffles the shock of midnight hair on his head?
...And yet you still feel entitled to those three words,
and you still expect me to pretend.
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