Anonymous. Poetry.
I didn’t have a childhood. Too rich for it. My father was too distant; my
mother disinterested. Instead, I got their money.
But I was always searching for that missing piece—someone
or something that would make me whole. I thought I had found
that piece in my husband. It turned out I had married my father. He had
no interest in me, only my money and making more of it.
In order to escape the rotation of brunches at the club, school galas,
and yoga retreats that had become my life, I attempted to escape.
The only problem was the method. No one noticed at first, but then my behavior
became erratic. My husband shipped me off to rehab. Like that could
ever fix me. I returned, promising to be the perfect rich bitch that he
married, not the drunk, coked-out trash I had become. I never even tried.
One night, after a particularly cumbersome charity ball, it all got to be
too much. I didn’t mean for it to happen, truly. But one moment I was crying
over the texts my husband sent to his secret mistress, and then the next, I lay dead
upon the bathroom floor. The autopsy reported that I had overdosed on opioids.
Don’t shed a tear for me. Don’t weep for the life of a person who did not possess a complete one.
My life was as empty as the pill bottles that my husband found clasped in my motionless hands.
redinkmag 