Strained By Substance

I used to hold cigarettes in my hand

when I couldn't hold the men in my life.       

Watched my first love become

an unprofane pothead,

dependent on subsistence to get through

unexplained anxiety

                        propriety

daily avoiding sobriety.  

Always smothered me with drugged up affection.  

I’d light a square to burn                                   

swirls of smoked up stress

let the reality settle in that                                                     

I was only there to fulfill his physical binge.   

Every memory-                                                                               

Dan’s either drunk or high.

lies spilled out like the geniality that used to fill

my brown eyes.

the only inheritance from my father.

My father…

has been diving into the overflowing foam of beers,

swimming through days off with his demons.

I remember cleaning up

budweiser off basement tiles

at age 8,

staying up at age 10 to make sure he was still breathing.

Putting on my best impression of a mom,

He became my sole responsibility,

taking severe consequence as gratitude

for laying him on his side,

becoming the parent

instead of staying a child a little longer,

making sure he'd live to do it again

next Friday night.

They both traded sober social events

for blurry weekends.

Struggling to escape this cycle.

like moths continually seduced by light.

When waves of alcohol were

crashing in dad’s bloodstream,

Or when Dan was confiding in cloud nine haze,

They'd call me for company.

Struggling myself to understand

why their hands were always so busy reaching

for Hennessey and Jack Daniels

or reefer and one hitters,

Too busy downing depressants or

Inhaling hallucinates to see that

I was always their number one fan.

But never their first option.

I continued failing to use my words,

but the failing use of my words was just

another way to tell the time.

Keeping track of all the moments

I wish I said: no,

I refuse to drive you to the liquor store

Or yes,

I do mind if you smoke up in my car,

I’m tired of your drunk babbling

I’m sick of that smell

I’m frustrated with your repeating questions

I loathe those bottles,pipes,hangovers, and highs

that you've been holding on to.

I tried to change their habits,

My fathers Friday night fights,

My lovers lulled lucrative confessions,

But they were hooked,

Addicted slaves to substance,

And I was addicted to nicotine

because I've been there

And I want to remember my weekends,

keep my memories in hands reach.

Substance has strained our relationships,

Never built up the courage to admit that

I miss him,

being sober.

Putting on his best impression of a dad.

Trying to recall a time when he wasn’t drinking,

but every time he’s home- there’s a can in his hand.

Trying to avoid admitting the realization that

I miss Dan,

being sober.

Putting on his best impression of a good leader,

instead of falling in line as the 26th follower,

when he thought his nights were actually worth remembering.

But I became a bystander,

failed to use my words,

failed to turn that something that

they so dearly hold onto

into someone.

Now they've forgotten me,

dropped me for their addiction.