the beekeeper.

dirty habit iii.

is there such a thing as second-hand alcoholism?
because i'm scared i may get it.
i already may die of lung cancer from your smoking,
but now my liver is at stake, too.

i'll never understand you.
are you the pestilence?
the terrible disease spreading from my lungs into my stomach and settling in my liver?
are you the thorn in my side,
the gap in my teeth that i've been trying to fill with food?
i think so,
and now you have become immune to the food
and have burnt a hole in my stomach to make sure i don't down any of it.
six pounds in the past two days,
gone.
squirming,
groaning in bed from this horrible aching inside of my gut,
and it's all because of you.

fuck,
your alcoholism is killing me.

and the sad thing is,
you don't see it.
"alcoholics drink like 16+ beer a day, even on the days they work."
"alcoholics can't go a single day without drinking."
"alcoholics drink whiskey like it's soda pop."
"i am NOT an alcoholic."

you know what i think, mother?

i think not being able to control yourself from drinking every day you're off is fucking alcoholism.

i think only being able to have fun whenever you're drunk is fucking alcoholism.

i think drinking whiskey every single night until you're stomping around like a child and picking on me is fucking ALCOHOLISM.

YOUR BLOOD IS FIREBALL AND YOUR BRAIN IS A BAG OF PEANUTS.

you know what's even worse?
you laugh about it!
laugh at you blowing smoke in my face!
laugh at me covering my nose and mouth so i don't choke!
laugh at yourself when you're stomping around like a toddler!
laugh at me being upset over you being so childish!

THIS SHIT ISN'T HUMOROUS
THIS SHIT ISN'T A JOKE
THIS SHIT IS STRAIGHT WHISKEY
AND CIGARETTE SMOKE.

if you touch me again,
if you tease me again,
i think i may just run out into the wilderness
and get drunk off the nature,
breathe in the sweet smoke of a campfire
and stomp on the dead, autumn leaves
like i am a kid again.
i'm only 15,
but shit,
i'm not a kid.
i'm not an adult.
i'm not even a teen.
i'm just a confused human being who can't stand to be around their mother
who age plays to an uncanny level
with no bdsm undertones to the name at all.

will i ever have a sane guardian?
am i doomed to a constant disposition between both parents,
both sets of grandparents,
and all of the aunts and uncles in between?
it's like my bloodline has a personal vendetta against me
and no matter what,
crack,
cigarettes,
snuff,
chew,
alcohol,
heroin,
or pure fucked-upness,
something is the route of it all,
and i'm tired of trying to find the cause.

so, mother,
i only have two words to say to you:
Fuck You.
do i need to say it louder?

FUCK YOU!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR WHISKEY!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR HUNCH PUNCH!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR BEER!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR CIGARETTES!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR VAPE!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR PRESCRIPTIONS!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR UTTER BULLSHIT!

it was foolish of me to trust you.
you really seemed like you were turning around,
like we were going to be okay for once in my life,
but here we are.
our entire relationship is on a thin, splintering rope,
and a plethora of fifths and shot glasses are weighted to the bottom.

before you yell at me,
fix your fucking issue.
before you call me a child,
grow the fuck up.
i'm tired of you.
i'm tired i'm tired i'm tired
but you're keeping me up at night
and no amount of bourbon-filled sleeping medicine will put me to sleep.