I could write about your drinking.

I could tell them about the battles that constantly brewed.

How our home became a war zone. 

Love and money being its only causalities.

I could tell them of your staggering and stumbling. Your tears and your “I’ll never drink again” promises.

All which were all broken, like the spiderwebbed cracks of the kitchen window, where your fist once landed. 

I could tell them all the bad things, but my heart can’t handle anyone thinking any less of you.

So I’ll protect you, And I’ll write of the good. Hiding the whiskey stains of my memeory. 

I am your keeper.