Hell

I had a good life
In my room the sun shone
And the walls were all draped
With the brightest chiffon

I’d dance in the garden
My heels soft as silk
And when I was thirsty
I’d drink fridge-cold milk

Indeed I was spoiled
My house was my world
My diary burst when
My thoughts were unfurled

My clothes were all ironed
And my kettle descaled
The stamps were first-class
That I bought for my mail

But I left it behind
The house and the friends and
The paintings I’d painted with
New ‘paintbrush pens’.

Because you had called me
Your voice a lone bell
You were sad, I was happy
Tears made my eyes swell

I ran to your flat
Inside it was bare
Apart from a mattress
And an old ugly chair

You were sat in the corner
Your phone still in hand
By the end of the week I
Had helped you to stand

Three months did I help you
Sleeping with you in bed
I couldn’t go out – for
To leave you I’d dread

I washed you
I fed you
I sang to you mother
Was I you daughter?
Your carer
Or lover?

Was I your stupid?
Your project? Your toy?
Is it because you had wanted
A boy?

I’m tired of your screaming
I’m sick of your moods
I just want to leave you
Your drugs and your booze

I had my own life
I was doing so well
And no, you’re not Jesus
Dear mother, you’re hell!