Cup filled to the brim
with pungent liquid. Amber,
purple, clear: does it
matter? The clock is
ticking. The cup is not
the vessel which
breaks—
Crazy. Crazy, right? Maybe.
Beat the corpses, wait
for a pulse to remind you: Mother,
you’re not going crazy. You’re not.
The child only remembers
the muffled shouts.
She doesn’t understand,
but knows to
keep silent—
head down, knees up, clutching
the stuffed Piglet. Bedsheet covers,
rising and falling. Breathe in
and out. Doors slamming.
In and out.
Someone must’ve pressed
Repeat. Must’ve thought
those saliva-choked screams
were cathartic. O Mother,
multi-platinum artist, more
than a million plays. Hit repeat.
Hit. Repeat.
Emails in crevices, muses
in hidden texts. Father asks
that you seek for inspiration
elsewhere. Fame asks
to keep that reservoir
of pain. Dig your nails
into skin. It is yours.
The young woman is reminded
of the muffled shouts.
She does understand,
but knows to
keep silent—
head down, knees up, clutching
her stomach. Bedsheet covers,
rising and falling. Breathe in
and out. Doors slamming.
In and out.
Cup filled to the brim
with pungent liquid. Amber,
purple, clear: does it
matter? The clock is
ticking. The cup is not
the vessel which
breaks—
a poem about a never-ending, alcohol and betrayal induced cycle
