When my mother told me I would get bitten by a snake, I did not believe her. I had lived thousand miles away from her when my father started to treat me as his walls. Little did the drunkard know, walls break apart too. With the sweet memories of my father, how could I trust my mother would tell the truth? She did not heal the bruises I gained.
I slammed the door before her face; she was not welcome in my apartment, anymore.
Two hours later, I dressed myself with a tuxedo. I smoked five sticks of marijuana and breathed in two lines of heroin. I drank two cans of beer and half a bottle of red wine. I still had the cold champagne in my refrigerator for our dinner later.
The doorbell rang and I let you in. I forced my tongue between the slits of your red lips; you trembled from the sudden intrusion and your own laughter. Your white shirt and blue jeans were strangers in my apartment; next time, do better.
We sat at the table for dinner. I placed your meals before your hungry eyes. I hope you enjoy the cigarettes, syringes and powders. I was about to inject the first drug into my veins when my front door burst into pieces.
You locked your handcuffs around my wrists before you flashed your badge.
Somewhere close, I heard my mother sing; I kept her shaking voice in my head. I think she was trying to lull me in a peaceful sleep.
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