white-walled ER at 3 a.m., so silent despite muffled groans and the lady in the room next to yours with auditory hallucinations, you could've almost heard mum when she broke.
morphine does funny things to people.
the doctor thinks she fakes the pain,
write "broken goods" on her chart.
she's in a million little pieces,
i think but never say.
words never come out the way i'd like them to.
show me what's damaged and why.
childhood was not pink dresses or blueberry pancakes,
it's mum dancing, yes, metaphorically.
her head filled with so much fairy dust and abandonment issues.
a body so filled with self-destruct it asks your depression if its dark enough for you.
slurred words and confessions,
the morphine or your mother talking?
bedtime stories composed of her last words being "more please"
somebody teach me how to forgive myself for not being able to save everybody.