Silent victims of addiction.
When the supposed to be supportive, tall, and strong hereditary oak tree becomes weak and frail bending and threatening to break due to strong winds of addiction-heroine, meth, opioids “this is just my prescription”
Mother birds begin to leave the oak trees fleeting life leaving helpless eggs to fend for themselves within the rocky home and withering nest. These babies hatch, they grow, make do-do what they can to create a home with what minuscule life is left.
And they push themselves to the edge of exhaustion. Reluctant feet still willing to give their all in order to keep a life alive. All the while walking on eggshells left behind from their disastrous hatching- I’m afraid to bring up things of the past for fear of hurting those who wronged me but how can I heal from things which cannot be spoken about?
Trying to create a better life on top of the shambles that have been left by their creators.
I pondered these thoughts at an age too young, sitting in an oak tree that I claimed as my own although it grew on land that I did not belong on. “Adoption means you were loved enough to be chosen by strangers” but it wasn’t home, and even my own kin did not remain by my side.
I lay in a new bed and cry following the soft rhythm of washing machines in a room which was not a bedroom- I slept along side the cleaning supplies, yet my heart still felt tainted.
I did not have a home it was destroyed in the winds of addiction, a mess that was not worth enough of my parents time to be fixed. I cried out for the ones I thought I could count on.. no answer.
