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help. You know that. You’re just a …”
A what? Her breathing sounds tattered.
I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.
I can’t. I’m sick of her freaking
excuses. “A goddamn coward.
It’s easier to keep on living like you
do. Day-to-day. No thought for
the future or the past. Not caring
about the shit you’re always crotch-
deep in. What about the boys,
Mom? What about any of us?”
She is quiet for a very long time.
I hope it’s because something I said
actually sliced through her denial.
But no. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.
And she’s gone. Suddenly I want
to take it all back. Damn her, anyway.
I love her. I hate her. I wish
I didn’t know her. I ache to know
her better. My glass bravado
cracks. Splinters. Crashes down.
I NEVER CRY
Never, ever cry over Mom
or the charade that is my life.
But tears fall now. And I do
nothing to try and stop them.
God, how I want to let her in.
But I know she’d only shut me out.
Doesn’t matter why—meth or
men or something I can’t fathom
