My room smells like a funeral.

Mother never let me drink her special juice.
Pants around ankles,
she cried in the garage because
she just couldn't make it to the bathroom.
A child isn't meant to change
her parents'
diapers.

She almost died once,
three percent chance of living.
I’m ten, and
in the back of my mind
all I can think
is maybe now
she’ll stop drinking.

She doesn’t.

But she bought me a bouquet of flowers,
peace treaty blemished by thorns.

I often think upon your funeral,
and I have a suspicion
it will smell like this.