It’s the way you can be married to someone
for eighteen years
then wake up one morning
next to a stranger.
The way the alcohol smells on his breath
when he climbs into bed
at four a.m.,
the way he tells you that you’ve gained weight,
you’ve ruined his favorite shirt,
you’ve ruined his life.
It’s because he can stop at the bar
every night
but never remembers to stop for milk,
stop to pick up the kids,
stop beating you behind closed doors.
It will always be about
the look on his face after the fifth beer,
the day his sixteen-year-old son
bailed him out of jail,
the way that the definition of “mistake”
will never involve premeditation.
It’s the way you can wake up
next to a stranger
who looks exactly like your
alcoholic, abusive husband
and blame it on yourself
that makes this story so cliché.
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