I found a needle in your purse
And again
What’s the point in trying when
It probably broke off
Away from it sharply and
Into your skin
I fucking hate my
Blood. What is moving beneath the surface of the first layer Mother?
Is it laughter that you could remember there,
Is it a Christmas morning ,
Or cherished moments of burnt breakfast and frustrated report cards ? Where was I in that moment- with your arms tied up in knots ?
What’s the point in being a mother without Pride ? Did you forget me too ? And Did you forget the severity of that Role ? The role I needed and still need you to play?
Is it all a Joke?
There was no point to the Needle I found in your purse.
Did it break off in your skin ? In my bathroom , as I slept, not knowing you needed it , Thinking you’d be alright without it. Rehab did you no Good. What’s the point in Rehab? Is that why there was blood on my walls? Did it break off in your skin ? Was what moved beneath it , not flooded by waves of tears and laughter?
Am I even your son?
∆Remember Us∆ 