Explain the unexplainable. 

Tell me, Mom. How did that black tar feel when submerging under your skin?

Tell me — did the bruises left behind 

All over your forearm and thigh

Cause you pain to the touch?

Did those traces of every time you used 

Haunt you when you glanced at them?

Tell me of the astounding rush,

Perhaps being the sensation

That was your remedy for pain,

That I was not enough to be for you.

Tell me —

Was it an impossible battle?

Did the unwanted addiction overpower any yearn you had to be set free?

Did you grow to be weak to the craving?

Tell me about your body.

Could you feel the white matter in your brain deteriorating?

Tell me, in one word, what did it feel like?

How about when in withdrawal?

It’s said that when someone develops the disorder

That seeking and using that poppy drug 

Becomes their primary purpose in life. 

That you literally live for that shit.

Tell me, is that true?

Was that high more important than your health?

Than your own life?

Than your own daughter?

 

I do not mean to be selfish,

Nor do I intend to belittle your life.

I am aware of what your true livelihood was and 

of all of the love you had for me.

I knew of your story and strong heart and loving soul.

And I pray this was never your intention.

However, I am now ready for the answers 

that I was too afraid to even ponder when you were still alive.

So, Momma, tell me all about the damn thing that took you away from me.