Small Price, eh?

A simple, half-drunk/half stark raving mad poem

An empty, shattered bottle of Grey Goose,

Thrown against the kitchen wall.

Two broken lamps and one exploded light bulb,

Glittering, futile agianst what has come.

Dad, broken and weeping openly into his hands.

Mom staring blankly at the wall, watching the last drip of vodka slide unstoppable to the floor.

The dying echoes of a primal scream,

Reverberations humming still in my hollow chest.

A warning and a promise kept.

You always were a stone cold b*****d.

All these things,

A small price to pay for sleep?

But I know I'll wake up in the morning,

And you'll still be cold, dead, and smile no more.

But the really sad part is,

You won.