It has been a year since your mother died. It has been a year and a month since I walked away through all the bright lights and pleases. Small on the outside, big big hole and big big wide open space on the inside. We produced the dark together, and when I left, you walked to the other side of the warehouse, in the corner and sat quiet. At the funeral I wrapped my arm around your waist and you cried at the pictures of her smiling down at you, in a sheet tent. There was sunlight and her hair was so long then.
A year later, and you tell me you're still on the same path, and you can't deviate, and you trust no one. The girl with the high voice and the little feet and the red hair couldn't take your drinking anymore. Too much, too much, she said. You said she said she never wanted to see you again. You kept falling down. One woman could hold you up with all her courage and stupidity, and you would still lie and make her efforts none. Another woman could tell you, "no, dammnit, no. you're poison!" and you would nod your head in agreement, tuck your tail between your legs and call her a cunt in the middle of the night, lying alone in your bed, with your dick in your hand.
You watched me carry a pumpkin from one side of the room to the other, hollered that you were leaving, and I ignored you.