The way I grew up was learning to sympathize
with the people who didn't deserve it
to be kind to those
who broke my heart

“**** them with kindness”
my mother would always say
but what if the person who broke my heart was
my own father.
am i still expected to mourn and love this
man
this diseased, careless man.
pressing a bottle to his mouth became priority over
his own *******
family.

wine stained lips that muttered
apologies
“I'm sorry”


as i grow older i realize i too,
love putting the bottle to my lips
even maybe too much some nights.

everybody was right when they said
i will always have a piece of you.
that piece of you sadly seems to be your
addictive personality .. and those stained lips