i) Ever since he left,
you seldom opened your mouth for conversations
but often for alcohol.
ii) You smoked cigarettes after cigarettes
over your mother’s favorite scotch.
Just see her one last time, your father said
and you threw up near her coffin
in search of a damnable redemption.
Take her away and don’t bring her back,
your father said.
He lost her yesterday
and you lose him today.
iii) Walls turn black,
and the sun refuses to shine
in a place you call home.
You can’t fix me, you say and
light up a joint to hide
behind the smoke.
I see your silhouette through all the
haze and it’s burning to ashes
with every puff you take.
iv) You shoot down colorless liquids
down your veins and the blood makes
the path for the oppressor you forced upon it.
It’s been seven months since he left
and four since she died,
you mourn the dead like it was yesterday
and the life inside you chokes on
it’s own misery,
I stand there in your silent, unsung
agony and you can’t even listen to my cries.
v) Every time you open the door late,
my eyes project pictures of your motionless body,
pills in your hands,
alcohol on your clothes
and an expressionless face.
I bang the door with my right
and subconsciously dial 911 with my left.
vi) And the inevitable call came,
the one I always waited but never hoped for.
When I see you in the hospital greens and
all the needles piercing you (the right ones),
I’m in two minds what to actually pray for.
For you to go back to your deranged psychedelic
universe or be at peace with yourself.
I can’t really choose.
You were right, I can’t fix you.
But you can,
so while you lie there motionless,
and fix this,
make a choice,
and I’d pray for it to be the right one.
Photo from Pexels