She fought us every step of the way, 

saying how withdrawal was too much,

how this time would be the last.

And we believed the lies because she was our sister, our daughter, our mother.

She knew what was right but when the time came to it,

she chose wrong.

She broke, but not just physically,

the majority of her scars could never be seen.

Nine years sober, a mountain of an achievement in itself,

but washing it down the drain was easier than trying to keep it out.

Heroin. Smack. Dope. H. Call it what you will but it's a demon.

A demon that took her life without remorse.

She left a child behind, my little nephew,

he was hurt the most. She changed her life for him.

Nine years old when she passed,

and those numbers aren’t a coincidence.

Heroin-addicted, she flipped her life so that he could be like every other kid,

every other loving mothered kid, and she tried her damndest.

But she could have been saved.

Saved from the home she had lived in for years,

that turned into a drug-den.

If we just had the strength to do what was more than right.

Kick in a door and pick her up and take her away.

And she should have been saved.

She was never fenced in, but still she couldn’t move.

The pain of what she had done killed her.

She couldn’t look any of us in the eye.

And now, if we want to try? 

6 feet of dirt is what we’d have to claw through.