I remember walking towards the truck with the keys in my hand. To many keys, she always had to many keys. It was warm and the wind was blowing a fair bit. I walked through the police lockup gate and stepped onto the gravel. The gravel was loose and crunched underneath my feet breaking the monotony of my thoughts. My heart felt like it was beating heavy and I had a knot in my stomach just thinking of the mess I was about to get into.
I got over to the door of the vehicle and opened it up. First thought was what a fucking mess this is. Glass was everywhere from when they busted the driver window. It was on the floor and completely covering the driver seat. Blood had pooled on the passenger seat and even more in the back floorboards because the blood had flowed out the back of the seat where it stood.
Looking towards the windshield you could see the perfect hole where the bullet had gone out. Surrounding it all was blood splatter, brains, hair, and skull fragments. All pieces of my mother, the scene total chaos.
After taking it all in for a short while I started cleaning off the seat. The small pieces of shattered plate glass jagged against my hands as I swiped it away. Pieces cutting and tearing at my flesh a little at a time adding my own blood to the morbid scene, completing the family portrait.
Funny how all this seemed to perfectly describe our entire relationship we had our whole life. Explosive and destructive, a never ending cycle of violence bent on destroying one or the other. Yet, when everything in life went to pot we were always there holding up the other. This would be my last time having to do so.
© 2018
Aaron's Poetry Page 
Beautifully written. I was there, I walked with you…Peace, Love n Light
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Thank you Kait! So long ago and still comes to mind. Somethings I guess are not meant to be forgotten.
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Perhaps just impossible to forget. Big hugs. She’d be proud of your writing I bet!
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I hope it’s fiction. I really do 😞 it’s so heartbreaking
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Unfortunately it isn’t. My mother committed suicide years ago and this and a couple other stories all come from that event.
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I’m so sorry..
Wish I had something better to say.
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It’s all good. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t bother me that is why I think it has made it’s way into my writing. All processed and all.
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I lost my mom too. My best writing came when she was struggling with cancer and just after we lost her. It was my coping mechanism. Probably most intense phase of life and that showed in writing.
Me be we all have tragedy artist situation going on.
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That is quite possible. The majority of my poetry is in response to the more tragic moments of my life. It is when I wish to write the most.
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Same here! I can’t really write peotry if I’m happy or just normal. I have to be going through some shit to be able to do peotry.
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I am able to write without but it is definitely harder. My style completely changes, which is fine because it allows me to explore another side of me. When I finally publish my second book I will have examples of that style in there.
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Glad you are able to write something you still can call poetry when you exploring different styles. I end up with crap.
All the best 🙂
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