They call him Déjà vu.

“Did she call? – ‘Cause she was supposed to.”

He looks towards his mother with fishbowls for eyes.

No fish of liveliness splashes his tears away anymore.

He’s been reliving his memories for a while now.

Lord knows his mama has been wondering why,

but the only answer she gets is how.

 

“She’s dead.”, she’ll say.

Everyday it’s the same thing.

He wakes up and hears the clock

and will manage to walk

to her with those eyes that have seen

a little girl, his sister, age fifteen

get hit by a drunk while practicing driving

and worry and worry as he holds onto her final words.

she’d be twenty three now, and how his mother hurts.

 

“Dead?”, he’ll choke like a child the first time they swallow bubble gum.

She flinches and wonders, once again, if she should of lied.

That’s how mother’s are, as we all know- they want to keep you dumb.

They parade around your fantasies and only give you the good side.

 

She’ll rub her face in exhaustion, she hasn’t slept in years.

Comforting her sobbing son by wiping away his tears.

Mother may he- Mother may he- Mother may he

get a glass of water to soothe his aching throat

or can you tell him that you lied and that life is a sick joke?

 

Once she slapped him and pleaded for him to wake up to the present day.

Instead of repeating tasks and words and pretending his sister’s death is just a play.

Their house is just the same as Broadway but with no audience, just silence.

Just his mother without guidance as he’s so sick and nauseous – he vomits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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