Fallout (Crank 3)

help. You know that. You’re just a …”

A what? Her breathing sounds tattered.

I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.

I can’t. I’m sick of her freaking

excuses. “A goddamn coward.

It’s easier to keep on living like you

do. Day-to-day. No thought for

the future or the past. Not caring

about the shit you’re always crotch-

deep in. What about the boys,

Mom? What about any of us?”

She is quiet for a very long time.

I hope it’s because something I said

actually sliced through her denial.

But no. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.

And she’s gone. Suddenly I want

to take it all back. Damn her, anyway.

I love her. I hate her. I wish

I didn’t know her. I ache to know

her better. My glass bravado

cracks. Splinters. Crashes down.

I NEVER CRY

Never, ever cry over Mom

or the charade that is my life.

But tears fall now. And I do

nothing to try and stop them.

God, how I want to let her in.

But I know she’d only shut me out.

Doesn’t matter why—meth or

men or something I can’t fathom