The old saying goes:

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

And maybe I was the fool

for believing the honey dropping from your voice

when you told me you'd never show up like this again,

wild, belligerent,

stampeding through my mother's dishes like they had wronged you,

staggering, swaying,

an ocean of alcohol,

and fists,

your frenzy sending all of your AA chips clattering

onto the floor

once again.

But whoever first spoke those words

surely hasn't seen you when you're sober,

how you become a modern day Romeo,

bringing me flowers even after a long day of work,

twirling me around the kitchen

as if we're in our own personal fairytale-

dancing and

smiling and

laughing,

how you kiss away all of yesterday's bruises,

assuring me that was someone else,

until only today matters

once again.

How could I be a fool

when your sobriety is so tender,

and sweet,

when our lives are far too intertwined,

when we've been together so long

we might as well stick it out,

when you always promise you'll get better,

when I always believe you?

Perhaps this proverbial shame

finds its home in both me

and you.

As we dance this corrupted dance

of Budweiser and bruises,

the dance we wrote about a love

that just wasn't enough,

we carry it around with us

like a festering gangrene.

We refuse to acknowledge it

but it seeps into our lives anyway-

poisoning our skins,

our hearts,

our souls,

until there is nothing left to do

but

dance.