The Splitting Ground

I see
with my eyes,
so dry from lack of sleep,
but do not feel,
in my heart
and my soul,
the way I should,
when you tell me.
I'm numb,
frostbitten to the point
of painlessness.

But when I finally see
you trudge off,
trunks in hand,
to your new family
and your new life,
without me
or Mom,
I drown.

I'm struggling
against manacles,
which bind me
and render me helpless
as the earth splits apart
from in front of me,
craggy and uneven,
secluding Mom and I
on our own little island.

Mom stands by,
impassive,
robotic,
forgetting me
and her marriage
and everything
she ever new.

That night,
with a trickling stream
of wet, ugly tears
dripping down my
hot, crimson cheeks,
I wait
and wait
until Mom leaves
to go out with friends
and cheer herself up,
the click
of the front door shutting,
deafening,
like the roar of a lion
next to my silent tears.

I head to the cabinet,
left miraculously unlocked,
and gaze at a dream come true,
my heaven on earth.

There was everything,
whiskey
and gin
and beer
and wine
and champagne
and the sweet,
sweet,
solace
of alcohol.

I drink
and drink
but don't feel better.
Instead, I feel warmer
and more desperate
and willing
to do anything
without consequence,
invinsible
when there is nobody
to disappoint.

I flip it open,
my cell phone,
and text this kid I know,
this jackass I know,
who likes to
undress girls
with his cold,
gray eyes.

He's there,
quick and snappy,
the garish headlights
of his Mom's car
blinding me,
as his wheels
crackled
on the blue rocks
of the long
drive.

He hands me the bong
and smiles,
as I lead him
into my room,
with it's lavender walls
and it's memories,
make it watch
as I slip deeper
into the abyss
of desperation.

When we're done,
he just drives away
and leaves me
to sit
and steam
and cry,
with more than tears,
thick ropey sobs,
that don't end
because I don't
want them to.

But when
it does end,
I sigh
and don't let them win.

They won't win,
no way in hell,
will I be
a messed-up statistic
because of
the mistakes
of others,
the misdoings
that weren't mine.

I throw the last bottle
of the drinks,
a sweet red wine,
with its burn
and its sugar
and its everything
at the wall.

It clatters,
shards falling
and scratching
the perfect floor,
with its flawless sheen,
scarring it
as I've been scarred,
but not ruining it.

I stand up
and head to bed,
knowing I'll never be the same,
but that I will be stronger.

Every day,
from then on,
I hop over
the break in the ground
that I thought,
isolated me forever.

Every day,
I smile,
knowing that I won,
that I'm a survior,
like all the others,
whose lives have been ruined,
by the deeds
of others.

I survived.