​A Bad Joke

“Doctor, Doctor,
My friend thinks he’s a chicken.”

“Well why don’t you bring him in?”

“Well, I need the eggs.”

My mum’s an alcoholic.
She doesn’t hiss or spat,
Nor beat or yell,
or anything like that.

No, it’s far much worse.
She cries to herself.
She tells me she hates her,
Wishes she were someone else.

And I sit and I listen,
And I stiffen and tense,
And I disassociate from myself,
And I wish I could help.

But I was just a child.
I hated that she told me.
She should be helping me.
I hate that I think this.
The guilt of loving backwards.

Time has passed,
and it sorta gets muddled.
The wrong order,
Things are just in.
Did she hate herself today?
Or was that tomorrow?

She quits the bottle sometimes.
Sticks to her diet.
But then I’m back from Uni,
Solipsism proved false.

Every single time,
I do really try.
I plead her to talk,
Let it out this time.

Then she wakes up,
Forgetting she was gone.
And then she is happy,
Sings her love with song.

She helps me with my life,
Puts my brother right for school,
Feeds me, loves me,
Provides me with every tool.

My mum’s an alcoholic.
I think I should turn her in.
But the problem is, well,

I need the eggs.