Just as a grieving mother once said,

These were problems a few months ago;

Coming home to a doll’s house

Instead of your own,

With coloured pen all over the wall next to

Their bed

And some squash dripping off of the counter

From the tipped over bottle.

Of course, it was for that reason that I first came to you,

To take the bar as my sanctuary

Whenever my little girl managed to pull

At that same, worn out nerve ending

As if it were second nature.

The same order came from my stuttering lips

For the fith time in a night,

And everybody knew

somebody was going to have to pay for me.

I would probably black out soon.

I would probably not be home by midnight.

Two things happen when you’re drunk;

You become irresponsible, and you forget.

_My god,_ do you forget.

I was home in the morning.

My girl would come and shake me

out of bed,

And all I knew was that I was happy to

See her little, chubby face.

Uh oh, it’s miss trouble again!

You probably know all too well about it,

From my sober complaining

To whatever I ramble on about

In my state-

I might have also let something else slip

A couple days ago,

That you haven’t asked me about since.

I knew shame most definately

As a close friend,

Coming home to a clean house

And dry counters-

The only thing still remaining,

Which I thank my past self for

Not taking the initiative to fix,

The colourful pen on the wall.

I picked up the same colour,

And drew her name right next to the scribbles

Where i should have painted over.