Observation of the Writer's Daughter

I used to watch you at your desk,
Sleepy drunk, head weaving over the typewriter.
You stabbed the keys, out of sync.
Random letters littering the page.
You noticed me in the doorway and beckoned me to read.
The letters were jumbled and reminded me of your mind.
“What do you see?” you asked.
I shrugged knowing this was safer than answering.
“You know what I see?” you ask.
“What?”
You looked over into the mirror on your nightstand.
Your eyes clouded over and you were no longer there.
I stood next to you a few minutes more, not wanting to abandon you.
I'd reached the doorway again when I thought I heard you speak.
“It says 'Help' ”, I thought you whispered. But I was too afraid to ask.