When she gets out...

The sunlight makes her eyes wince,

as she leaves,

the building of comfort,

and guide.

Her orange baggy clothes gone.

Form fitting jeans and T in its place.

There is a moment,

she thinks she sees her father.

No.

There is no one outside to meet her.

We have all given up,

on her.

Everyone but,

me.

It is not her first release.

She may not know,

but it will also not be her last.

She has gone through rehab.

She's been clean for many weeks.

But it is the same old story.

Once let out,

she is thrown in again.

And I am left,

numb by depression,

loss,

disappointment.

I have lied, that

no one is there to meet

her.

They,

They are waiting,

in the heat of a black SUV,

for her.

Like They always do.

and They see

her step onto the

pavement,

lost and wandering,

just how They like it.

And,

while,

I'm in a bar,

hung over,

wondering,

how this can happen again.

And if it was the right,

decision,

to not,

come to pick her up,

and say,

everything will be

fixed,

now.

Because,

she will,

change.

Because,

things will be different.

Because she'll get her life together.

Because I love her.

But,

in the back of my mind,

I know,

it makes no difference,

who is there

to greet her,

because They,

They

are always,

there.

Following behind her,

like a ghost.

All the love I give,

All the tears I shed,

All the walls I punch,

will never change this.

Her life is a ticking time bomb,

a poison that doesn't care,

for my life.

But, I care so much for hers.

Does that matter?

No.

They give her what she wants,

Even if it slaughters everyone around her.

Her father, me, her little son,

who just turned five.

It is us or the drugs.

One day,

I hope,

I'll find her,

with a needle in her arm,

Dead,

in the corner,

between two brick buildings,

killed by her own obsession.

Then maybe torment will fade,

and They,

will find a different prey.