Embossed

 
It's hard for me to share the same air as you
when my blood is still thicker than mud.
I've watched you slowly deteriorate
to the tone of you preaching
that you're still in control.

If your jacket in summer
and curtains that never open
are what you call control
then you're doing great.
If your sucked in and sunken features
were what you were aiming for
then you're doing an amazing job,
but I know better and you know nothing
except the ticking, craving
starving addiction
behind those faded scheming eyes.


Your kids are distant
and happy.
Not that you'd know or care.

You remember their names
every time you sail the pale boat
on the possessive-swelling abyss
and I hate to say it but the only time
you are familiar to me
is after that needle fucks your vein
and before you sink and dribble
through your stained throne.

It's stitched well within you
in every limb and through.


You've submitted yourself to your own shackles
where you are a fungi on a hollow trunk
retaining much less sustenance.


You are this page.
This poem: my words.
I didn't say goodbye because
I couldn't pour myself away
watching you rot on your feet.