Anything In Return, v2

v2, addition to collection of poetry about relationship with my mom and her passing.

You moved
after my letter of 92.

I can’t apologize.
Stupid fucking letter.
 
That must have killed you.
I think I killed you.
 
I was not there
when you swallowed

the bottles of pills
lying around you,

but I was
in your head;

with your friends,
Choo Choo, the cat,

your sisters,
my sister,

your sad and tired heart,
your lonely heart,

taking care of others
never anything in return

Sick and tired, you wrote.
Sick and tired,

no one caring for you. 
Sometimes, I feel this way, too.

I think about being a kid,
wondering what you did.

It was not taking care of me,
the way a mom could be.

I’m not really sure
what that might have
looked like.