I can't forget about you
You're trapped in my head
The audio on repeat
Over and over again
Those two words that started this whole mess
It follows me
Meandering behind me like a lost hungry dog
I turn around and it lowers its head slightly
I keep walking, feeling it's stare
I go into a bakery, it waits outside
It looks lonely and hungry yet I'm afraid
Afraid of it hurting me
It looks gnarled and rough, grey around the edges
It won't leave me, it simply trails behind me
I ponder who it's owner is
I walk a few more blocks
Maybe it will leave
I turn around its still there
I wonder again who the owner is
I decide to find out
I feed it a piece of bread, all while feeling frightened that I might lose a finger
While it is occupied I peer at his collar
And what I see makes sense
My phone number
Leave me to my ****** mood
So I can sit and cry and brood
So do not try to cheer me up
I'm mad about my half-empty cup
If you attempt to make me smile
It will surely **** me off
I want to be angry for a while
And sit around and scoff
So get your happy away from me
It's really an insult
From joy, I want to be free
This is my misery assault
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.
Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.
They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.
But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.
I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.
If you have a problem with my breast
Covered by the head of my feeding child
Maybe you shouldn't look at my chest
Man! That suggestion is wild!