white powder

You wasted your life chasing some white powder in a small plastic bag, I wasted mine mourning a man i'd never get to meet. I'd heard stories of you before the drugs, even mom says you were a good person but by the time I was born the drugs had already scrambled your brain. in a weird way I feel sorry for you. I try not to, but most of the time I can't help it. When I go to visit you and stare at you through a piece of glass for an hour and a half I often feel more like the parent than the child. On one of our last visits Nona bought you a snack and as I sat there and watched you, I realized I had never seen you eat before. I was 17 then. 17 years and I had never seen my dad eat. It made me cry. It still does. But it made me happy in a way. Happy to see that you at least had some food in your stomach. I hate you. So much. I hate you because I know that you don't actually give a shit about me, and as soon as your out you'll forget about me all over again. And I'll be here, waiting for someone to tell me you got back on drugs again. I won't be surprised, I know it's going to happen and when it does I'll cry. Because all you do is chase that small plastic bag full of white powder.