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.