Get Out Of My House

Get out of my house.

And, get out of my garden.

It has not yet been twenty-four hours

since I lost my father.

Send your condolences

along with some flowers.

But, do not breathe the air

that I am gasping for.

Do not walk through my front door

with artificial tears in your eyes.

And, do not attempt to decide

who will produce the loudest cry.

Get out of my house!

Why am I running around

to wait on you?

Tea or coffee?

One sugar or two?

I do not care if you take milk or not.

Stop eating my bread when this is all that we have got.

Stop drinking out of our glasses

and eating off of our plates

that we will then have to wash

when you have hidden your face

for good.

You are only here because you think

that you should be.

I love some of you like family.

And, some of you are family

who I do not love.

But, I have had enough.

Heating pizza in the oven

and slicing it in the slithers

for you to stuff your faces in

because you can eat.

Because you will not grieve

like me.

It has been over two years

and I am still angry.

These are all of the things I wish I said

when you presented your unwanted company.

You mean nothing to me.

You are not family.

You are selfish.

And, worst of all, you are happy.

You are having babies

and celebrating anniversaries.

You are not dying

like me.

It has been over two years

and I somehow am doing worse

than I was before.

Because I was numb back then

and the grief was raw.

Now it has become a part of me

and it is killing me.

Recently, I broke down on the bathroom floor.

My mother held me

as I told her I did not want to live anymore.

I promised her,

and I promised myself,

that I will not ever leave.

But, should my mother have to grieve

for me.

Do not come to my house.

Do not sit in my garden

and make my mother run around

when she has just lost her daughter.

Leave her a cooked dinner

that she will struggle to eat.

But, do not you dare make her heat pizza

and put sugar in your teas.