Dad and his mangy mutt both lie there, one asleep and the other in pain.
I quietly wash the dirty dishes, watching rot go down the drain.
The fridge is empty, bare, upsetting — He put his pills here by mistake.
An hour's time will pass, and he'll go crazy when it's been misplaced.

Heroin and opioids and nicotine gum stuck on walls,
I never like to have friends over, and besides, I get no calls.
Our carpet's itchy, beige, and sometimes sticky with old piss and soap.
Cleaning's such a bother here; I think this place has lost all hope.

Elsewhere, on the bookshelves, in the dusty boxes under beds,
Merchandise and inventory wait to be the highest bid.
A crinkling of some bubble wrap is loud enough to sound alarms.
Danger yells at everything; I fear these items mean me harm.

Because this cold apartment has no space for those who like to live,
I sit inside my darkened closet, huddled by the laundry bin.
The steady whir of my computer — Blue screen washing me in light —
Lulls me with its constant chatter, harshened, pixel lullabies.

Once, he drank some toilet cleaner, picked it up while high as hell,
"But hey, don't worry, baby darling!" Emesis, and all was well.
Another time, he threw away our cushions from the leather couch.
He'd hallucinated they were garbage bags and tossed them out.

Tiptoe past that open doorway, jaded, angry, yet resigned
To two years of what forever feels like etched behind my eyes —
Two or three or four or five or does it even matter now?
Time is never real inside me; still, the silence sounds so loud.

I think I am nostalgic for a childhood that did not exist.
Memories of what could be a decade past are what I miss.