Ode to the thirteen year old boy who found his mom passed out on the bathroom floor. Ode to the doctors that stitched her arms up. Ode to the father that had to clean the crimson liquid off of the floor. Ode to the doctors that saw her later again because her organs were failing due to excessive drinking. Ode to the liquor selling man for keeping the secrets from the family. The countless secrets. But over all ode to the thirteen year old boy. I can’t stress enough the fact that the boy was thirteen, no thirteen year old should ever experience what he did. The boy found his own mother beside the bath tub. The floors, once white, are now crimson and stained. No amount of bleach could clean up what was once there. She spelled out her mistakes on her arms with a blade. Letter by letter, each swipe brought pain and more of the thick crimson liquid. Each swipe was said to let out grief and stress, she did it so much until he had nothing to stress anymore... or at least until she couldn’t