I imagine what your mom is doing,

sometimes. I like to think she gazes

hard into your bedroom's orange walls

and cry and cry and wonders where

the fuck she went wrong. She loved

you. She doesn't lie in your bed,

afraid to poison the imprint your body

left before you went to the bathroom

and slashed yourself so your demons

would stop screaming. And now she's

screaming for memories of better

times that haunt her. She cries with

no one to hear her, and I so desperately

wish my screams would carry far enough

for her to know that she is not alone.