Newly minted mother Lucy
confronts me
about how easily I’m bruising lately.
She scowls with concern that makes me squirm
and I say “I’ve gotta go.”
My still-sober father
tells me I worry him
he’s stuck on the theory I’m doing cocaine
never once tried blow, pretty sure I’d fall for it.
He says let him know if I want help
I say “I’ve gotta go.”
My dear mother
starts every damn phone conversation
with “How’s your eating?”
I cringe and want to hang up.
“Mom, I gotta go.”
Even Crystal
is up my butt
to do something about my showbiz career,
“Do you really want to be stuck
waiting tables forever?
You’re kind of bad at it.”
“Sorry, but I’m outta here.”
Why is every frigging person in my life
such a pain in my wide ass all of a sudden?
Only problem is:
I’m running out of places to go.