Nightlck

I used to believe in happy endings.
That was before.
I used to believe people changed.
That was before.
I used to believe that if I just held on, if I just kept on trying for both of us, we could survive the train wreck we'd become.
But that was before.
Before you passed out, for the last time on our pale, marigold, fabric sofa. Before you gambled all of our money away. Before you found out I could no longer comfort you, and the only peace you found was at the bottom of an empty bottle. Before you lost your job. Before you lost yourself. Before you got so angry.

I wish I would have listened when my parents told me you were never going to be good enough.
I wish I would have never met your dazzling blue eyes, filled with not with ocean, but seas of betrayal
I wish I would have left.
I could have left.
But against my better judgement, against every reflex, I stayed. I stayed down the spiral your life became, and instead of walking away like any rational person, I took on your troubles, I lived your pain, allowing myself to become a piece of you.
You could never accept it though.
Your bursting ego and awesome pride prohibited you from loving.

I loved you...
I still do...

You had this stupid glass in the shape of a football, and I was clumsy, I was careless, and with the shattering of this insignificant object went your sanity.
But then your white, hot anger turned towards me.
I had long ago lost the instinct of self-preservation.
Your fists curled up and white anger turned to my body, every living fiber, stained black and blue. You lost control, your feelings bubbling up to the surface all at once. You were a passionate artists in need of a canvas and I was the closest medium. You hit, and kicked, and slapped, and bit, pushed, and screamed and left.

You came back two weeks after.

The only thing remaining from your fit was a cut above my lip.
You always did think people should finish what they start.
So everyday your pain grew worse, the stench of Jim Bean intensifying, creating a sickening mess for the both of us.

Three years.

Three years of my life I wasted on your pathetic prowling figure, only to find you laying on the couch, not breathing.
And in that moment the colors all came bleeding through my paper thin shell...
That ugly marigold color, that is now my favorite.
The white hot fury that caused the blue in your eyes to match the bruises on my stomach.

I used to believe in happy endings...
Now, all I want is a decent beginning.