baby, did the cocaine get the better of you again?

when i closed my eyes, my eyelids played me pictures, little moving pictures of girls like my sister. that's how it used to be, before the trap she fell into; it was an accident. when he came in, he brought in all of this snow, and after that all i saw was dark. and my sister never shivered the same again. our parents didn't really notice, but i remember them yelling about what they heard in her bathroom. dad was drunk and mom was just trying. i just had my plastic trucks, & when my sister opened the door, he opened up his stomach and she climbed up through his small intestine, then his large, and swam all around in the bile of his liver, finally settling back down in some big artery that you need to survive. i don't know if she's come out yet, but when she does, she told me she'd call me from the pay-phone on grant street. she told me once when she was living there that his eyes looked like gemstones from Africa and his hair was like a panthers. "purple?" i said. but she told me yesterday his eyes looked more like dirty seafoam and his hair felt like mayonnaise. when she caught him with his nose in the flour again, he told her that it was her fault, and she believed him, a little bit. but she wrote me a letter last night, it was addressed to me. it had my name on it, in her big block letters. like the communist manifesto, it said her hair's gone grey and her skin's fallen off, so i asked her, "baby, did the cocaine get the better of you again?"