moth to a flame

She is sadness
personified.
Goodness of the heart,
but badness of the way.
Gone is the family
once held together
with green bills and smiles.
Tonight it's chardonnay
from a box,
ice cubes tinkling the
tumbler.
He can yell from upstairs all
he wants,
she still misses her daughter.
It was just them in the beginning
now her girl is miles away,
sleeping soundly in bed
dreaming of her own future children.
Her blues aren't allowed here.
Not allowed to even
see her own mother
on her own terms.
28 years ago in a one
room apartment
they laughed over Big Bird.
She cried as she held her girl
then.
Told herself the meth wasn't
worth losing this.
The man beating them wasn't
worth losing this.
She remembered those fateful words
that she spoke from a pay phone
on Central Avenue.
Mother and daughter,
hand in hand,
rushing traffic in the background,
"If you still want us, we're here.
Come pick us up."

obviously boys and girls, this is pure therapy - nothing too special to the outside eye, but it's just coming out how ever it wants.