There are stones between us, grasping black
jagged deceitful arches of rock which have
stolen my blood and my feelings and my
smiles once too many times. I can look and
see the waves crashing, engulfing what
little humanity you managed to bury and
lose in favour of salty self-pity, stories told
in the drunken tear tracks that mask your
face and your lies and your guilt, because
please do explain to me how you cannot feel
guilty, I get it yeah, alcohol dims your memory
of all the awful things you've said and
done and left open upon your face, slamming glasses
against walls, music screaming at 4am as you stomp
and kick and shout at the TV, at the world,
at my sister and I. And then she grew to
shouting back and never being home and
I? I yearned to bring that bottle down on
your ******* head and glory in the blood
and bone and brains that would cover me and hide
me from every single little ******* thing that you
have ever deigned to commit. Sister, I could reach out
to him now and try to bring him back from the seething
waters, but I would much rather watch him slip and fall
and drown in the glory of his own creation.