Jun 16, 2013


It's been almost 13 years since my mom died.
I shouldn't even say she died. 
She killed herself.

I do still find myself sad about it.
But, more often than not
I am mad.
Seething, even.

For how could a mother who claimed to love her two children
Be so fucking selfish?

How could she love that high more than us?
How could Demerol and Codeine be more important
Than a future with her kids?
Than her kids' futures?

I am MAD.
I would walk into the kitchen at night and see her
With those pills and liquid opiates sprawled out
Her eyes closed
Head tilted back
Mouth open
And every time
I thought
She was dead
I would stop for a second
Look at her
Wonder if I wished it were true
Or not

Then make a loud noise to wake her from
That temporary narcotic sleep.

I am MAD.

She took those drugs to the point of
Never returning.
Heart attack.
At 38.

I am MAD.

If I saw her again, I would tell her. I am MAD.
That mad anger I'm feeling outweighs the saddness
Most days.
I'd ask her if she knows what it's like
To lose her mother
And her father
To painpills.
She'd tell me no,
She's sorry,
She misses us.

She has no idea
That she bore an ugly cigarette burn
In my silk.
This thing, this mark I carry.
This feeling of disgust.
This little brown stray mark
Of gnarled skin, of twisted bone.
That sick scent.
Those colors.

She let her flower wilt before
She got to see us bloom.

And you know what?
We're still going to bloom.
My brother and I.
We're still going to shine on.
Just not as brightly
As we could have

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