Emotional biohazard

Wednesday, according to UPS. Delivery by the end of day….what was left in her apartment. As soon as he texted me that it was sent I made sure I had gloves…..as I read it again to make sure it would be Wednesday.
The detective read the short report to me over the phone. Blood spatter, signs of drug use….no note. Just shit and blood and bottles and her. The bathroom floor was the last thing she saw. Not my face, or her mother’s… I have an overwhelming urge to know what it looked like, to see what she did.
Wednesday.. the box that her brother packed up will arrive and all that is left of my mothers life will be sleeping inside….and I have to wear gloves because she was positive for hepatitis. Just don’t let the crazy be contagious.
I turn 40 on Saturday and this is her last gift. An overdose, a box, and a bathroom floor.

The pedal creaks when I play
the old ship’s tarred wooden planks stretched against the water
Something sad like moonlight sonata that he played
from a perfect copy of mozart’s.
Tanned hands didn’t dance across the keys like my mothers did
flitting & jumping.
His fingers pressed each note and moved on
to quickly return and comfort
the ones he’d only just left behind.
I’m struggling to remember notes & lines that used to fill my head.
Now I concentrate to bring my hands to make each sound.
To hear my piano teachers disapproving voice
who I so wanted to prove wrong.
I never saw either of them again
My grandfather had a stroke during the year we had run away again.
Flying back from Jamaica with only my mother,
who had come to claim me.
My last memory of him
he’s being led
down the long hallway,
past the piano
with an old man’s shuffling gait.
I was afraid to reach out to him.
His hands half curled,
shirt rumpled.

Reblog if you’re a Brown Coat

girl-on-fiyah:

.

Yuuuup

(Source: princesskoriandr, via fuckyeahfirefly)

not missing her today

everyone on facebook has posted

 about missing their mom today

many of them gone from this world

some just far away from home

my mother is still living

but I’m not missing her today

for those of us whose mothers are

still “living”

but gone

it’s hard being between the two worlds

She’s somewhere lost

 lost in her anger

  in alcohol

  in dieing alone

  in manipulation

 and I’m left with all these messages about missing

 and all I miss is what I never had

what I now am to 3 wonderful souls

and that in between place of

not missing

and nobody gets it

nobody know how hard today actually is

for those of us who don’t get the sympathy that the survivors of the dead are rendered

we don’t get any words of comfort

any words at all

there’s no good way to come out and say “I’m sorry your mother is insane/drunk/angry/unsafe" 

but she is

and the one who raised me is dead…but grandmother’s don’t count

on mother’s day I’ve been told.

and neither does my mom

Pretty when you’re older

She kept repeating it
At least once a month
“she’ll be so pretty when she grows up”
I looked nothing like my gypsy mother with her olive skin & green eyes, long hair bleached blond to match her Danish father’s.
I looked French like my father, not like her or her people
Like a man who left her after giving me that out of place southern name that gave me nothing
but teasing in the towns we moved to
I’d wake up every morning & hurriedly check the mirror to see if I’d grown pretty in the night…
never did change my dark brown eyes
never did change my full lips
never changed into pretty

She always spoke it with such longing
and she’d take a long drag off her expensive cigarette.
And I’d wait
to someday
be pretty