I think I understand now
why my skin crawls
when they talk about it,
when they use it,
when the mere thought of it lingers in the air.

It makes me sick.

Was it D.A.R.E.?
Was it my parents, drilling it into my head—
They **** people. Never do them.
Maybe.
But I think it’s simpler than that.

Maybe it’s my history.
My family’s history.

I have watched from such a young age
what it does,
how it tears apart,
how it ruins.
My mother.
My father.
Their love, shattered.

I remember when he went back
to his first love—
drugs.

Christmas time, he called for me.
"Come here."
Unusual, but I went.
I fetched what he asked for,
and in return, he gave me a look—
a look that will haunt me forever.

His eyes.
His anger.
They haunt me.

Days later, a hospital bed.
A frantic phone call.
"Throw it away."
A cigarette box, a small bag,
powder inside.
My mother, beyond mad.
But she lets it go.

Then, the videos.
The pictures.
The truth—
laid out on a screen.

Screaming.
Fighting.
Hands around her throat.
I scream at him to stop.

He turns on me.
Darkness.
His hands around me.
Then—light again.

I’m still screaming.
Still recording.
Still shaking.

He leaves.
The police take an hour.

And now, I know.
That’s why I can’t stand it.
Why I can’t be around it.
Why the talk of it pulls me back
to that night.

The night I lost my dad.

And maybe, I’ll never be comfortable.
Not unless I do it too—
so, I won’t think about him.
I’ll think about myself instead.
About how ****** up I am.

And maybe,
that’s the real problem.