I called your mother

 I called your Mother. I had promised you I wouldn't.

I said, "Mother, I cannot do this anymore. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. It's been months and months and months.

Is she okay?" I hear you shuffle beside her, on the phone, trying not to let me know you're there. It's the closest I'll ever get to you.

I'll take that.

I found the grass growing over me, like a confession. 

I found myself eating glass, like repentance.

I smoked until I could not feel my hands. I pretended they were yours, on my waist.

Mother. Is she okay?, I say.

Is she alive?, I mean. 

Is she okay?, I ask. I am not. 

I have so much to say and no you to say it to.

I am not.