YELLOW WINTER

books

How I would like a couple of books given after close observation of my my perceived likes. A parcel on a random day with "I feel you might love these" Written on a little white paper like a love note but this one wouldn't carry "I love yous".
No confession just a parcel of books with a million different confessions thrown in every sentence as I journey through a world of words that help me escape reality... something cigarettes don't do.

Perhaps I'll have someone email me E-books that'll keep my eyes glued on that old monitor screen for hours on end. That'll be the greatest confession... it'll make me feel sane.

But that would never happen. In my world I my camera lens write all the letters that'll remain hanging in the basement, my wardrobe and maybe above my bed depending on the time of the month when Maria's in too much pain to drag her bad leg around like a pirate who's lost a leg. When her ass wouldn't leave that old raggedy couch.
Her mouth gets more foul in those times. But I can take it...the frustration when she can't stand up and I have to hold her while she uses a bucket then verbally throw shit at me.
She's mean....mean mean...but those days are the worst. If I do come home early I can get her cleaned up and sneak into my surprisingly decent room , day dream for hours while heavy doses of sedatives and painkillers keep her quiet for lengthy hours.
Sometimes I creep by to see if she's still breathing, not because I care you know... I just don't want to end up realizing she's gone because of some foul smell... Ok that's mean but it's true... In those moments when I see her face twist in discomfort in her sleep I feel a bit relieved, atleast I don't need to get too close to her.
She's beautiful...not as pretty as the girl in those oversized tees forgotten in half burnt photos but she is. I see her when I look in the mirror but all the ugly parts though.
Lips glued in place. Heavy eye bags. Worry lines crowning my hair covered forehead.
Skinny legs... they're pretty on her or where pretty on her ... they've never been pretty on me though.

"How are you"
Read*
No reply*
Three days later -

I'm good. U are too, right?
Unread*
30hrs later -

Yes. I am.
I'll drop the supplies during the weekend.
Sorry I haven't come around much, been busy with work.
Read*
No reply*
Four days later*

Ok. I know. Alright.
Read*

Sometimes the next and last reply came with a heart emoji, sometimes it didn't. I get it. Anyone would get tired talking to Maria....
"You're fine, right"
Like she doesn't expect anyone to have it worst than she does, like she believes she's been abandoned and everyone's life's moving on without her.
The last parts true though. We've both being abandoned, but why hate someone for leaving you behind?

Carol doesn't owe Maria nothing. Your best friend living the life you both planned while you rot in the place you both planned to escape from while you leach off her even when you know she's helping because she pities you, because she knows you blame her for that night...and she blames herself...but Marie can't scream at her ...instead she pretends to be in too much pain to step out to see her best friend who drives in beautiful car, has a husband, two degrees and a PhD, has a kids she doesn't hate and most importantly kids who's father she knows.
Carol knows not to try to come in to say Hi.
On days when she takes enough drugs to not sedate her but tick her mood a steady nodge she does come outside. Lean on her cane, a cigarette held in place by her lips and a little
"Hi."
"Thank you"

Oh Maria... would I ever get to call you mother?