I feel like I’m on fire.
Limbs shaking, fingers slick with guilt and anticipation.
I can’t continue to put myself through this, but I also understand that I can’t just leave you behind to your own devices.
It’s been seven years since I became your savior.
Seven years since I became your crutch.
Thirteen years old, losing hold on my innocence as you held on to me like I was your life source.
The only solid thing holding you down to the ground.

In some ways, I was happy to help you.
Days turned in to years, I felt my first taste of heart break, my first real taste of fear.
The strange exhilarating rush of childish intimacy wrapped in the hands of a meddling boy, and you stuck beside me, as mothers should.
I thank you for that.

I’ve been ****** dry.
Seven years of listening to you pull yourself apart.
Seven years of me growing deeper into being a self sufficient woman; sharing my secrets and my advice in hopes of pulling you closer.
In hopes of pulling you back to the surface.

Three years ago, you picked up the bottle.
Three years ago, you gave up on being a mother because you said that you didn’t know how to be.
Three years ago, you gave me the ohkay go to become an independent person.
Three years ago, you strapped chains to my core and began living vicariously through me and my stories, and I obliged.

I tried to save you.
I begged you to stop drinking.
I pleaded to you.
Please come back. Please be my mother again. Please help me, because I’m lost, and I don’t know how to come back.
But you didn’t know how to come back either, and I held on to your hands as you cried and told me that you were just as lost.