you will come home to your room and find things not quite how you left them.
the bed is a mess; it's unusual for you.
you always clean when you get anxious,
but you will understand when you see an empty can of her favorite drink on your bedside table.
at least you know she put something in her body;
you saw how she could barely stomach the way you looked in the hospital.
your bed now smells like her,
but your home still feels like a war zone filled with land mines.
and they will ask you if you regret it,
but you only did what you thought was right.
how can you look them in the face and tell them they were not reason enough to stay?
you want to feel guilty,
but you don't know how.
if you are supposed to live for yourself,
why do you have to keep breathing for the sake of someone else?
you take in your mother's scent,
and beg yourself not to try again.
