Week after week
I would come through those
gray doors
It didn’t matter what day or time
it was
It was always unlocked
Cracked just a little bit
The stale hallway
leading to a stale apartment
Warm yellow light
and muffled voices
that became louder as I made my
way into the humid
and sometimes
dank
kitchen
The same faces
week after week
month after month
Year after terrible year
Our eyes would rarely meet
Money would still exchange
Drugs would change
People would come
And go
The black couch and the pain
would remain, though, the same
I remember one of the many times
we shuffled out in our
Substance induced oblivion
and swing on the swings in
Satellite park
Empty but for us two fools
young and reckless
and completely carefree
The sun shining down on our
tepid bodies
Our skinny faces
Roaming the Brooklyn streets
as the day and its events would
leisurely pass us by
How I do not long for those
veiled days
anymore
They are but a distant mark
on a lonely and dark past
I have rid the shackles mostly
I hope you can someday too
at least for your two children
if not
For you–
nightshiftsister 