Skimt's Marrow

I see my house through glass,
but still can’t make you clear.
I sang, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Mom left me with her here.

Table, trays, all full of ash,
empty beer bottles and trash.
It played, “Hey, what’s going on?”
If I pulled back, would she lash?

Back to the mattress on the floor;
her whiskey breath calls me a whore.
It played, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Her insides are too warm to ignore.

A stark contrast to this G&T,
none left to call me sweetly.
I sang, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Even my memories mislead me.