Constant Chaos
My mother lived
at the bottom of a vodka bottle.
Her lungs crystallized
from years of breathing
tobacco instead of air.
She wasn't always sad,
I'm sure.
But I never saw her smile
quite as often as I saw her
eyes glazed, rats-nest hair,
with slurred words,
clawing at her wrist
saying, "Look at what I did."
My father never lived,
despite the girls in tight dresses
on white, sandy beaches,
with trophies and smiles
in permanent creases.
Despite the photo frames
from tourist shops
in places you've only ever
dreamed of seeing.
But never to love
is to never live.
As far as I'm concerned,
he's always been
dead.
My grandma was a solider
in a war against herself.
She fought the tumor,
made entirely of her.
While I wondered if
the thought ever occurred
that she killed herself
to keep from killing herself.
And she apologized
to me.
My sister gave too much of herself
to any boy who gave her
the attention she could never get
from her father's tombstone.
And her mind was more fragile
than the baby who stopped growing
inside of her.
But not fragile enough
to crack under the weight
of her mother's drunken blows.
And I never touched alcohol
or cigarettes.
I feel too deeply
and love too much.
I take my vitamins like clockwork,
wear my sunblock,
balance my meals.
And scarred upon my wrist
is a list of things to quit.
But despite the constant chaos,
the one constant in my life
was you.