a little book of poetry

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

I'm sorry I'm really bad

At doing my chores.

I never organize my drawers

Because it reminds me of how messy my life is.

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

I'm sorry I burnt the chicken when I was cooking,

Especially because I did it on purpose just so I could avoid eating,

But it doesn't matter all that much really

Because I'll binge later and make up all the calories.

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

I'm sorry my room is such a "disaster" as you all say, 

But it's the only place I feel safe in after a really, really bad day,

And I don't like cleaning it because that's like turning over a new leaf,

But not turning into a new, better me,

So what's the point anyway?

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

I'm sorry I don't wash the dishes as much as I should.

Whenever I do, it reminds me of food,

And I crave it because I've withstood

From eating. Eating is not good.

Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.

I'm sorry I haven't vacuumed the floors in a while.

The reason they're dirty is because I walk all over them, creating a big old dust pile.

It's my fault because wherever I go, a mess follows.

So, Mom, Dad.

I'm sorry I've tracked dirt into the house,

Ruining our good name- it's like staining a white blouse

With dark red blood that I can't get out in the laundry.

Mom, Dad, I'm sorry I'm behind on the laundry.

I know all my clothes are dirty,

And they pile into a big mountain that towers over me,

But I'm climbing another mountain,

One whose peak I cannot quite reach

Until its peak comes crashing towards me

In an avalanche as my whole world crumbles where everyone can see

I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad.

You should have had a better kid,

One who always did their chores,

One who has always fit in.