I used to wait outside your bedroom door,
waiting for you to wake up.
Mom would say that you could cure cancer if you wanted to,
and Dad’s eyes would light up at every achievement you earned
because you reminded him of himself.
But you threw that all away for a needle in the arm and a quick high.
Now I sit outside your empty bedroom,
and I wonder how everything changed.
Mom says that you’re doing better
as she patiently waits for a cure to the cancer of addiction,
and Dad’s eyes go dull when he hears your name
because you remind him of the monster that took his only son.