Daughter, make no mistake I love you. But I do not love what you put yourself through, me neither for that fact. To see you laying there on the hospital bed, pale, lifeless, tubes being inserted through your nose and mouth. Gloved hands, pink pans, syringes. Surrounded by strangers coming and going into the room.
Beautiful brown eyes dull looking, rolling around, seeing but not seeing. Words being said but not understanding.
Will you do it again? Always there are promises. Tears. Then the hateful words, the spiteful words, the cuss words spewing forth. This was number 7. Will there be a number 8? Will you live or will I bury you.
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