Once I was an artist, and I owned a drawing compass
that I used to carve red beaded lines into my wrists and forearms
while Pink Floyd played deep and quiet, filling my bedroom
with sweet melancholy; The Wall, the soundtrack of my adolescent depression years.
I’d fall asleep to music, and wake up in the middle of the night
to find my blind drunk mother pissing on the blush hued carpet,
right beside my bed;
“Mom. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m peeing! Get out!”
“You’re not in the bathroom!”
And sometimes she’d pass out,
face down in the piss soaked carpet,
right beside my bed.