Sometimes when my mum gets past the point of tipsy-
And she cries herself into laughter-
I'll wonder what it would be like to tip back a glass
Blink away my worries for a bit...
What I would feel like...
But then I'll smell it
The liquor
And my stomach clenches and coils away at the thought.
I'll sit back and watch as my mum spirals down into a depression all too deep to handle.
I'll listen to her bang at the wall in her room and scream.
I'll hear her cursing her existence....
Then mine.
I'll feel her cry....
And I blink.
I'll bring up my glass of water to my lips and remind myself that I don't need the bitter release she so desperately craves.
I will only ever be her daughter
Not the broken monster that her bottles create.
YOU ARE READING
Collect Me
Poetry"Maybe dreams stay dreams so that the nightmares will still feel worse than reality...." A collection of works in her forbidden hours, raw and new. I'm not a particular fan of collection pieces, but it's been highly requested so.. I'm going to try.
