You decided to mix your medicine
with some of your favorite Popov blue
and now the ambulance is in the driveway
here, again, for you.
Mom shut my in my bedroom
while they strapped you down.
You were yelling things I shouldn’t have heard,
and she didn’t want me around.
In the hospital waiting room,
I hear “One, two, three, clear”;
your drunken heart had failed again
and that flat-line buzz is all I hear.
You never apologized
for all that you stole and changed,
and now that you’re back in our lives,
you expect it all to be rearranged.
But what you never realized
is how much you took away,
or how much they all hurt,
those stinging words you’d say.
And I’ll never find the strength to tell you
how much that you tore apart
or how scared I am to come home one day
and find you with a finally still heart.