Two Sips of Mountain Laurel, One Trip to the Morgue.

Don't ask for both mine and the worlds' pity. Whether he pulled you from a ditch, lifted you from a shelf, bought you from an antique shop, or saved you from being tequila filled, you who tries classifying trashiness, you understood it all. When he began to intertwine his fingers into your handle, he still had a firm clasp on me. When he was just beginning to smell the sweet fragrance of your deadly mountain laurel tea, he still had my elderberry in his mind. When his lips were just beginning to graze yours, they were still full forced pressed to mine. You had barely a taste of his nectar, while I was overflowing with his honey. I shouldn't have been shattered the way I was and you shouldn't have been cracked the way you were, but you saw how much happiness he brought me and you remembered the happiness from before your breaking, and like a Blue Jay robbing the Bluebird, you swooped in. You understood that he was pulling away but that the aftertaste in his mouth would be me, and so you tried to fill him with a poisonous drink, but he's smarter than what you've had, he already whispered to me the symphony of  lies that you tried to slip past him, and he knows that something may smell oh so sweet, but that it often rots the teeth away and burns blisters into throats. It shows; he still asks for these simple favors, for that longed friendship, for my endless support and love. He still asks for me to be the one who brews him tea, who spins with him in fading light, who pulls the strings and manipulates puppets, who fills that hole inside of him. It was apparent when he didn't know what you were allergic to. It was clear when he tightened the string kept around my neck. It was transparent when he called me after I tried cutting that titanium string that tethers us. It was obvious when he recoiled at a six letter name, that you don't speak but that sits festering in the back of your mind. Don't try and play your card wells, or change the views of the onlookers. For this jury has been filled with a panel of sharp-eyed realists, who've been handed pairs X-Ray goggles, and when they look down into our bones, past my elderberry blood and your mountain laurel mix, underneath one whose flesh is dying and one whose flesh rots, beneath the pain and deceit, there they see my skeleton, which has been shattered, and then they see yours, every bone perfectly in place, minus the 33 that make up a spine.