When my father looked down at me,
half-jokingly asked if he'd be
checking me into rehab
within the next few years,
a part of me I didn't know I harbored
hit the back of my throat,
wanted me to
bark back remarks that
I hadn't known would ever grow
from years of watching him destroy his body
from tears from watching him,
his eyes half-closed, his head half-nodding,
half-listening to the stories of a little girl
who wanted not to be forgotten
who wanted one less memory of a door
ripped half way off the hinges
who wanted one more memory of
the stillness of a mug on our glass table
not earthquakes in louisiana and
heartbreak from ceramic shards laying in
coffee and powdered xanax
How I wished the word rehab
wouldn't have made you more mad
would have crossed your mind
would have been a solution to
the problem you never thought we would find
out about you kept your secret hidden
at the expense of her image
We burned her name to keep you lifted
you never apologized you never got help
you did it all by yourself
after years of watching you destroy your body,
how dare you look at me and question
if my glass of wine is too full
if my bottles are piling up
I think my organs are fine, thank you,
it runs in our family not to want help.


Of course, that side of me stayed silent,
and will never be exposed,
at least not face to face,
only in anonymously written prose.

So I laughed and not knowing what to say
masking the feelings I wouldn't show,
I looked at him in his tired run down eyes
and I half-jokingly replied with "No."