Your
words start to slur
as
you take another sip
and
tip-toe across
the
kitchen, trying not to
trip
over your own feet.
When
will you see
you’re
too old for this?
You
pour another
and
another
and
another,
never
once wondering
if
one more
is
one more too many.
First,
it was only at dinners
and
parties and lunches
with
clients.
Then
came the Happy
Hours
with
swerving drives home
avoiding
ditches.
And
last comes now, at home,
where
you sit alone
trying
to remember
the
daughter you drowned
in
neglect;
your
hate-filled hand erected
like
a stone statue at my face.
One,
two,
three
hits
to the back of the head
where
the hair hides
your hand print.
Genius…
even when you drink.
You
sway so close
I
can smell the stink
of
all your demons
on
your breath
and
I just want to disappear,
leave
this place
full
of hate and fear
until
it doesn’t exist,
until
I don’t exist
and
my name cannot
pass
through your sour lips
ever
again.
Sleep
finds you quick
as
I sit and wonder
how
I ended up
with
a mother
like
you.
All
I can think of –
the
only truth in this world –
is
God must have
a
sick sense of humor, too.
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