Little Johnny

Little Johnny didn't know shit about why you were always mad, always drunk. Sure, you had reasons, but a seven year old don't see reasoning the way we do. You hated your job. The car was always breaking down. The bills were always late. Periods tended to come late in the Jackson household, too. Johnny wasn't lonely, but he sure didn't understand you, and you never even noticed.

So, now Johnny's all grown up and no one talks about it. You don't drink any more and it's probably for the best although there is a drab, presbyterian, uniformity to the days - that's new. Back in the day, things were exciting at least. Someone was always yelling or crying. Excitement is not always a good thing. Yet, these new still-born days seem to drag on forever... 

You're always working that lip. Like your mouth is a blind mole looking for the vodka tit. Like you've decided, fuck it, if I can't drink vodka, I'll just keep doing this until there's enough blood to drink.

Someday, Johnny's son will wonder about the whole thing. The strange distance. The odd affirmations. The sentences that are shush(!)ed before they even get started. There's no going back, and everyone knows that - they also know they liked things the way they used to be and, for the life of them, they don't know why.