To My Grandmother
In the morning, when my throat
feels like papercuts, I'll drive home,
thinking about the vodka gummy bears
someone soaked for three days
and the Camels another girl and I split
while discussing sex and inadequacy.
And somewhere, in the dark
of my glove box, I shoved my phone
before the party. On it, an email from you
and I think about it between cigarettes
three and four, while watching the flame --
as everyone watched you drink-- out
the peripherals. Side-eyed when you
bee-lined the cabinets under the sink, hunting
not cleaning supplies, but vodka.
And we blamed ourselves for a while.
Until one day, when someone--I can't
remember if it was my mother or uncle--
woke up angry. Knowing you didn't give
a shit anymore. So we welcomed three years
of nothing, because that meant we wouldn't see
the decay. We would only wonder what's wrong
with you, as I do now--however brief-- while
picking at splinters in my leggings.
But then, when my cigarette extinguishes and
the pack is empty, I open the door and go back inside.
