Housewife

I am your housewife.

We’ve been married for three months at this point.

You’re wearing a classless suit, feeling like a real man.

I, standing in a short dress, with an apron around my small waist, am baking blueberry muffins.

I’m gorgeous, or at least I have been told. 

As I center a muffin on the plate, you sit on the couch, reading the daily paper.

I stroll over and hand you the muffin as I sit alongside you. 

I gaze, mindlessly, at you.

You’re gorgeous, or at least by society standards.

“Honey,” I began as he shifts his attention to me.

“Would you still love me, be married to me, if I was a monster? Would you still love me if I destroyed us?”

I don’t know how those words came out of me, but he accepted them and leans over to give me a kiss on my pink lips. 

“I chose you to be my wife for a reason.”

I blush and took the muffin away from him before he could eat it. 

Later that night,

I throw away the muffins that were laced with mercury.

He cancels my appointment to be locked away in a mental institution. 

I’m so glad he’s giving me another chance – giving us another chance.

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