The woman in the chair is not my mother.
Her eyes the same shade of blue, but sunken too far in;
Her skin too big for her bones and hangs like a sheet
             draped across her shoulders.
Her hair is sparse and scattered across her skull as though one puff of the wind might blow it all away,
her smile - weak, her lips dry and cracked
             stretched thin across her teeth.
The sound of her voice is familiar but soft, a whisper
echoing from somewhere deep in her hollow lungs
             as she calls my name.


This woman is not my mother.
Tubes snake out from beneath her oversized flannel shirt;
            I count six from where I stand stagnant in the doorway.
Pumping toxins from her body,
Draining life from her core
Stealing the woman I used to know, used to cling to.
She sits somber now, engulfed by the chair and the room and the noise
and the tears that flow silent from my eyes
As I sink to my knees against the doorframe
        and curse a god that I don’t believe in,
        in a life I no longer want.