a somber denial of the self

though she tells herself she trusts him

the minute he is out the door for an extended trip of business

she finds her way to his desk &

with suspicious fingers, she rummages through his things

looking for evidence of something that might explain his

recent melancholic manner &

though to her friends she paints the “perfect marriage,”

saying that things have never been better,

those evenings at home with him far away

breed sleepless nights &

even if she hadn’t found anything in her most recent

investigation,

she knows in her heart

much like Abigail did her own visions of the “devil,”

that such evidence is coming to her life soon,

like some specter of the “apocalypse”

hovering around the rafters

bearing down upon her.

 

when he does return

she kisses him with the same paranoia tongue

that tap dances around her “truth”

playing the part of the dutiful significant other

who never asks questions &

never worries through her facial expressions

so as to not let on to

just how bad it is devouring up her insides &

without a friend with whom she feels she can discuss

what really is bothering her,

she quietly awaits for the next time he leaves

for the chance to find something incriminating

which would satisfy all of her indictments

convincing her of her own sanity

assuring her that such a denial of self had all been worth it

in the long run.