The memory of you

In a city far away from home, in a room I don’t live in anymore, there is a cupboard with a drawer filled with your promises that I left behind. The homeless man outside our window, always high on acid constantly trips in a loop. Ask him and he’ll tell you its an image of you making me leave and me begging you not to do this.

The things I write about.

But if you catch hold of me in the dead middle of the night and cut me open, you will find a little girl that is questioning it all. Do I see you in the desperation of an addict? In the screams of a quite child?

When I close my eyes

You haven’t changed a bit, I think to myself, you’re still the 20-year-old kid I fell in love with whereas I’m a 65-year-old grandmother full of wrinkles. You smile and ask me if I picked up food for you on the way home. I try to explain to you that I didn’t know I was coming to see you today, death doesn’t come with a phone call

They asked me.

I hate that two drinks down I’m dancing in a short skirt to ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ and not 5 kms away from me, the same amount of alcohol is bruising a woman’s face for the hundredth time. That half the world is dying of hunger and the other half is dying to lose weight