Your mother is a mess.
She drinks until she can't speak
and smokes until she can't breathe.

She leaves voicemails on your phone that she won't remember the next day.
She slurs, "I love you."
"Why won't you call me?"
"I'm doing better now."

I remember it all.
How insecure you are with name-calling.
I slip and say something I regret,
you lash out like a hurt animal.
You were emotionally abused growing up.

So was I.
I am a mess.