Vent this hot poisonous gas out!
I’m done with you.
Throw you out the window, garbage on the sidewalk, splat!
Anger, family hurt:
My will instructs do not inform sister when I die!
DNR do not resuscitate this dead thing once family: mother, father, sister and fag.
She’s phone dead, Facebook blocked.
Dead to me as my buried mother.
Don’t inform me of her death, her husband’s, or their kids, or their kids’ kids.

Rift, renting and tearing asunder all family ties.
Years ago thoughtless loudmouth remark shot on social media.
Moments the clan took up the outrage: what a monster I was, still am.
Most of them could barely say hello at my mother’s funeral.
How fucking pathetic keeping a family resentment that long.
It began, grew, festered, spewed ugliness months of mom’s lingering death.

Sister’s defense, she kept me informed,
abreast of mom’s critical care, informed after processing estate.
She was the primary power of attorney.

Mom was going to die.
She passed that stage,
she made peace with her demons,
made peace with her friends,
made peace with her children,
made peace with herself.
was ready to leave.
Sister kept mom alive selfishly,
that poor body suffered.
Passing into unknown realm of death:
she stopped eating, drinking, controlling her bodily functions.
Sister kept her alive, watching mother suffer.
Oh, wasn’t she the good daughter?

Her husband accused me over mother’s bedside,
accused me standing over her dying body,
accused me of wanting her dead for her money,
accused me of wanting her dead.



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