Here's a little bit of my writing style:
I still remember the deserted hallways of childhood, gutted rooms—emotional outbursts from a mother who had more of a relationship with a heroin needle than me. During her succumbed moments, I roamed the building peeling off chipped paint and wallpaper. Sometimes venturing outside to find the drunks huddled next to the fire, rubbing their hands while their deformed red-veined noses dripped. A junkie’s child—guilt slowly packing in arteries from the anger I felt toward my mother. For all I know, my father could have left because of her destructive behavior. But I didn’t want to think that way, since it would mean he deserted me too.
My relationship with my mother ceased when the drugs destroyed her body—chewing her from the inside out. Her body spread across the bed, eyes rolled back into her head, the color of dirty snow and marked by the incessant addiction that gnawed at her day and night.