Should’ve Taken Tylenol

When I was peak crazy
I dated this guy who really loved his mom.
He said he didn’t do drugs
because it would’ve broken her heart.

They both smoked thick-ass blunts
and drank a lot,
but I guess that didn’t count.

At the height of my downfall
I attempted to steal $50 from him
so I could stop aching.
I got caught
and lied through my teeth
to cover my ass.

He left me.
The ache stayed.

Believe it or not,
the love was pure.
I still can’t eat peanut butter M&M’s.
They make me sad.

Lucille was hell on wheels,
raspy-voiced, barely peering over the counter
at her chicken cutlets,
laughing, holding space for every ache
like only a mother can do.
Hugging you like a fucking cloud.

Years later, he came to the tiny apartment
above my parents’ garage
where I lived
and told me he had a coke problem.
I wanted him back
but also knew
that when you give a grown-ass man mommy issues,
you just have to move on.

I blink and find myself in aisle 9,
my own son racing ahead
toward that goddamn orange bag
that’ll rot his teeth
and my heart.

I’m rendered speechless,
but if I could, I’d warn him:

Some cravings can’t be conquered.
Instead, they fester, feed,
shapeshift into
a smooth yellow Percocet,
stunning in its perfection,
the kind you’ll never get
but still regret
at 41.