poems

Grey

Maybe it was my fault.

Maybe if just for once I had let it go I would be alive, but then I don't think if I let it go, even just for once Marcy would be okay or it could even be counted as living if we continued the toxic cycle that was our lives.

Marcy, my 17 year old sister that always seemed to get in trouble, on purpose, of course.

No matter how hard I shielded her from the violent drunkard that became our father, and the pain of seeing my mother hospitalized, yet again, she always seemed to find out in the worse ways and every time she would run away into whatever slum she could find and do whatever she felt could take the edge off of life.

We had grown accustomed to the hourly fighting, the abuse, the screams, and the terror, yet it never seemed to take the edge off of life like "it" could she would always say, each and every single time I confronted her about it.

Still, while we were accoustumed to the ruckus, the night terrors, and the reactions we now have around people are something no one can change.

Every night we would hear a big, long wodden door creak open and the sound of foot prints clumsily stumbling along as he fumbled with one hand, the closing of the door.

Why, did he only use one hand you might ask.

Well it wasn't a crazy fashion sense or even because he lost an arm, it was simply because the other was always placed roughly around a expensive wine or a cheap bottle of beer that he either nicked from somebody or he bought with money he got from god knows where.

This night it was expensive and strong brandy, only about half full.

But of course, with his less that sober form he always found a way