I close my eyes as he comes up the stairs. I stop breathing for a moment and try not to make a sound. Not one. Not even a single breath.
I hear him nearly falling down the stairs. He's nearly upstairs, nearly in front of my door.
I lie in my bed, not breathing, not opening my eyes, hoping he would just go away, just leave. He doesn't. He lives on his life. Not thinking about what he does, especially what he does to other people and how it makes them feel. Afraid. Lonely. Depressed. Anxious.
His mind is clouded. I don't know how many decisions the golden liquid makes for him and how many he can still make on his own.
I don't know why he does it. Week after week after week. Doesn't he understand how much harder he makes his life, my life, my brother's and especially my mother's?
Why does he do it over and over again, not thinking about the consequences?
But he's just a drunk.
YOU ARE READING
midnight poetry
Poetrythese are some of my thoughts and stories. written down in sleepless nights, published without second thoughts, if it's really a good idea to share them publicly. but i guess i've got nothing to lose.
