the colour of your make-up is the colour of the tears you cried the day your mother died
and sometimes i feel guilty for living in a world where wells run dry and old men sigh,
and i can’t imagine being the person to give a letter to a family saying that their son is still alive
but by the time it arrives, he’s died
and when i feel like saying that my life is hell and i feel so unwell,
there are children fearing their lives from husband’s wives,
where blue is the only colour in their eyes.
i can’t imagine how i can’t do anything.
dirt is being thrown at their babies,
but they can’t say anything because they don’t know who’s guilty,
guns are being drawn by twelve year olds
and no one is being told that it can get better.
tape cannot fix the torn paper of those divorce documents or of our adopted son,
you threw all of what you wanted in the fire you used to burn down our apartment when you were drunk,
and you swore you would never buy another bottle but you still did.
especially after i kicked you out.
now i’m alone without a home but you don’t care; why should you?
still, when i think about my old man sighing and the day your mother was dying i can’t help but not care,
because what’s out there is not here.