Mr. and Mrs.

They know I'm a writer

but sometimes I wonder if they know how to

Read 

between 

the lines 

are self inflicted.

She sometimes comments on how I leave things all over the house;

it's the weed that makes me forgetful 

(but some things are unforgettable no matter what we put in our lungs)

maybe I do it to remind you that I'm still here

although I can never know for sure

since it's the drugs 

(and not partly genetics)

that give me these special gems of misconduct.

For example:

I took a shower this morning and was worried about leaving

a piece of hair 

on the floor 

which you'd notice and want to 

throw away

(Even though you keep locks of her hair to remember her;

She once told me jealousy is ugly but so is hypocrisy)

She told me I used to cry (for no reason) when I was a baby;

she was teaching me to self-sooth when she put me in the bathroom alone

just so I could get it out of my system and return to normal

I guess I never learned that lesson properly, did I? 

Is it the books I read?

The poems I write? (which you don't read)

The scars on my legs? (which you've never seen)

The pills I take?

What the f**k tipped you off that something was wrong?

You know he stills wears his wedding ring, right?

I did learn, however, that it's possible to be unemployed

despite the birth certificate which verifies that 

you've never been without a job

(Even when you don't have one)