Saturday, May 14, 2011


Five months in,
sitting at the kitchen table in
complete defiance, wrestling
conscience and fury, I barely
listened as you stood over me, telling me how
exquisitely you grasped my struggle for
sobriety as you had recently, finally
successfully conquered your own
addiction, sugar.

Perhaps you were hoping for
solidarity and forgiveness.

However, abandoning all restraint of
tongue at this tender confidence, I
unleashed a torrent of abuse, assuring you that
you couldn't possibly know what I was
going through  - pshaw! sugar?? -
and that I wouldn't be
battling this problem at all if you hadn't
spearheaded the intervention.
Your wounded face slunk out the door,
leaving me to my pain-filled, lonely victory.

You were right that day.
And I was a bitch full of wounded pride
How I wish I had the opportunity today to
tell you how absolutely correct you were,
chatting over a glass of
water and compare notes on our
respective abstinences.

(Poetry prompt: Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.)

1 comment:

  1. Wow, this blows me away. My father was an alchoholic. When I found out what that really meant and that it was an addiction I wanted to reach out to him and tell him I understand. It was too late. Your poem is so full of the angst of wanting to go back in time. You write so succinctly about hard subjects.


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