A day.
A night.
Years spent looking after you.
Creams for your eczema.
Rubbing your back.
Massages.
Endless cups of coffee.
Boxes of wine,
four bottles at a time,
carried home
like offerings.
Those endless looks of disgust.
Wishing you’d wash
the blood from your clothes.
Boils weeping through your skin.
The ripe smell of infection.
As though death himself
had started knocking.
Vodka setting fire
to the streetlamps.
Wine trickling
into your eyes.
Cracked, flaky hands
wrapped around a glass.
Your breath rising
from your nostrils
like mist over a meadow.
You sit beside me
already half-gone.
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