I didn’t call you back. Why didn’t I call you back? I should have. I even could have. But I didn’t. I’m left with the bubble in my stomach, and the singe on my skin; they both reek of regret and sting like poison.
A girl needs her mother
The words keep turning in my ears. They beat around inside my head until a migraine develops and sweat forms on my brow. The skin around my nails a dull and achy red.
I’m covered in the idea that you’re almost gone. But you’ve been that way for a while, haven’t you? A brutal cycle of pain and drink. The pain takes over until the drink can and then you’re left thinking that just covering it will make it okay.
But band aids aren’t meant for deep cuts. How long have you let it fester? It becomes hard to feel when everything is constantly dulled. No wonder you were bitter in the hospital room. The constant beeping a roaring reminder that the band aids aren’t working and you’re dying and it hurts.
Band aids have held you together for a while, haven’t they? But what about when you’re left to deal with it? What about when I’m left to deal with it?
A girl needs her mother.
Even if that mother isn’t what she once was. But the beeping continues and you eventually fall asleep. I wonder if you’re actually asleep or if you’re just pretending so I’ll leave.
A girl needs her mother.
Like you needed yours. And I’ll always need mine.
A.B. Lee Writes 