Just

Your mother, in the kitchen.
She puts away the groceries,
Spewing out apologies
for being gone so long-
But she knows she doesn't care.
And you know she doesn't care.
And you know she might've cared,
But his love was never there.

You sit heavy at the bottom
of my stomach, like a Rock,
Pull my insides till they spill out,
and fill my head until it pops.
You churn my stomach like 6 shots,
Poison me then let me rot,
You'd've won, if you'd've fought.
Instead, pop the bottle, let it rock.

Your presence fills
cracks inside my chest,
Your air breathing down my neck,
Your hands creeping up to get-
to catch- to catch- to catch- to catch.
You creep up from behind
sneak or creep, and crouch and hide,
crawling out from inside
out of the back of my mind.