WRITTEN WORD
ISSUE 3 / APRIL 2022
The Troubles of Girl/Womanhood
By Samantha van Westervelt
This is a writing piece that depicts the troubles of being in the throes of addiction long before becoming a woman. The traumas of growing up too quickly, and believing that addiction is a phase that we go through, and eventually are meant to become accustomed to as we grow older. The longing to go back to something we never got to have, but instead accepting that all we have is the present, and the hope of recovery.
I am 9 years old, playing in my sandbox that my father built, using a worn, yellow plastic ashtray as a bowl for my potions made with sticks, flower petals, and dirt. The sunset was always beautiful.
I am 11 years old, sitting at the edge of my bed, mutilating my body for the very first time, I make two vertical cuts on my left wrist. I hold my Dalmatian stuffed animal tightly, cry, wondering if I should take pills or hang myself. I do neither. I just let my tears burn my face, and the cuts burn my skin simultaneously.
I am 14 years old, getting high off pot for the very first time, with my very first boyfriend. I slept in his bed, and he slept inside of me. I felt cold plastic tossed upon my bare shoulder. I think that was the night I lost my virginity. The butterflies in my head seemed to eat away at my brain.
I am 16 years old, getting high off pills for the very first time, with a thirty-year-old man who I thought had loved me. I thought I had loved him too. He cooed words into my ears as I breathed in his sweat. He left me for dead after almost a year. He made sure I would never forget him by leaving me with an addiction to something much worse than him.
I am 17 years old, 18, 19- I feel like I’m dying, but it’s okay, because my new boyfriend’s kitchen cabinet is like a candy store for addicts, everything in here will surely numb the pain, rot your teeth and leave you wanting more after an extreme crash. His mother feeds me my new favorite. I feel warm and fuzzy all over. How long does this last? It’s been 12 hours. I cannot sleep.
I am 20 years old, 21, 22- I left that boyfriend hoping to find myself. Addiction doesn’t want that though. Addiction wraps me up in a sweat soaked blanket and tells me it’s going to be okay. It never is.
I am 23 years old, and I wish I was back in my sandbox, and I wish I soaked up the light of that beautiful sunset. Maybe I could have embodied it. I could have become the light before the darkness swallowed me. I could have stopped the unforeseeable, perhaps, or perhaps not. I better not dwell on the past, and the could haves and the should haves, after all, that is what feeds this disease.
I am 24 years old, and although the sunsets are still beautiful, I still find it hard to breathe when I look at them. But still, I look, and now when I taste the past, I can spit it out and swallow the hope of the future that recovery will bring me. It must bring it to me.
It must.
July 22nd
By Matty Heimgartner
At twenty, my partying became too much for my parents to handle. So, they had to let go.
@fabulousmatty / Matty’s Website
On July 22, 2011—just a couple months after my twentieth birthday—I was woken up by my father shouting at my sister Amanda, who I shared a wall with. I jumped out of bed and the spiced rum from the night before immediately began pounding against my skull. My bedside table was flipped upside down and my stereo, CDs, perfume bottles, and trinkets were scattered all over my floor. This was not unusual for a morning after a blackout. Despite the marching band progressively beating louder in my head, I pulled up a dirty pair of denim cut-off shorts and opened my bedroom door to see what the fuss was about.
“Matt,” Dad quickly shifted his anger to me, “this is absolute fucking bullshit. We trusted you two to go to the concert downtown, come home, and not drink. Your sister is sixteen years old. What the fuck are you thinking?”
I didn’t answer him. I tried to remember if we made it to the concert.
“I need to call Tam,” Dad said as he stormed back to his bedroom on the other side of the house. His solution for most problems was to call my step-mom.
I took a step closer to see inside Amanda’s room. She was sitting on her bed, wrapped tightly in her plush bathrobe, hunched over. She looked worse than I felt. I followed her line of vision to a vulgar pile of vomit in the direct center of her bedroom.
“Fuck,” I said.
The truth is that she and I had already been drinking buddies for a few years. When I was seventeen and she fourteen, our parents spent a couple hours most evenings at our grandparent’s house to help our grandfather, who was deteriorating with Alzheimer’s. When they weren’t home, they locked their bedroom door, so Amanda and I had to remove the screen from our parents’ bedroom window and climb inside to raid their stash of liquor. We would carefully pour ourselves drinks from the diverse alcohol collection in their closet. In the attempt to make the missing alcohol unnoticeable, we poured a little bit of each bottle into one big cup, mixing rum, vodka, gin, tequila, and bourbon together. We would then replace the screen and blend our concoction into a fresh fruit smoothie. The flavor was only comparable to the smell of cow manure, however that didn’t stop us.
We eventually graduated to asking our neighbors to buy us wine coolers from the liquor store down the street. The first man willing to help us out was very happy to take the half mile walk to the liquor store as long as we gave him a few dollars so he could buy a drink for himself. He was one of many rotating residents in the group home next door. Some residents were adults with special needs, but some—like this man—were in recovery. One night after bed time, Amanda and I snuck our friend into my room to drink with us. (Although Amanda had her own room, we often dragged her mattress, box spring, and bedframe into my room for week or month long sleepovers.) The three of us teenagers drank an entire box of wine coolers as we stripped and danced nude to Brooke Hogan’s song, “Strip,” which we listened to for hours. I was too drunk to think about pushing the repeat button, so I manually pressed the track rewind button every time the song ended. We had many nights like this but it was a year or two later when Amanda was first caught.
While I was somewhat of a lost cause in my parents’ eyes, they still had hope for both of my sisters. One Friday night, when our parents were going out of town for a concert, they agreed to let my sisters go to a party. They lied and said it was at a different friend’s house when they were going to the house I partied at every weekend. We called it The Twins’ House. The twins were two emo heartthrobs—all the girls and gays had a crush on at least one of them. The guest list was a blend of other emo kids, nerdy gamers, my gay friends, and my athletic girlfriends. After losing connection with my raver friends, I immediately found a home with this group. I introduced a lot of them to ecstasy, but drinking and smoking weed were the priorities for them. On the night that my sisters joined us, Nicole and I made a team for shot pong—like beer pong, but with shots of rum to avoid the bloating of beer—while Amanda mingled by the barbeque pit. At that age, I hated wearing my glasses, and I was already too stoned to focus, so Nicole and I lost every round we played. I didn’t mind because nothing made me happier than my two worlds finally blending together.
At midnight, I rode along as our friend drove my sisters back home. I went back to the party though because my favorite part of every weekend was the groggy, hungover breakfast and fresh coffee with everyone who crashed on the couches, floor, and sometimes under the dining room table or in the backyard. Nicole, who was always cautious when intoxicated, went directly to bed knowing that was the best way to not get caught. Amanda, for whatever reason, went directly to the family computer in the living room. When our parents arrived home from the concert, they found her sleeping with one hand on the computer mouse and her head thrown back against the computer chair, mouth agape. My parents smelled the liquor on her breath, which led them to open Nicole’s bedroom door and check her breath too.
We were caught a second time when Amanda and I hosted a twentieth birthday party for me. By then, Nicole was away with the army, and it was only James, Amanda, and I living at home—Amanda in her sophomore year of high school, James and I working and partying. We were super careful to remove every inch of evidence from the house before our parents arrived home from their camping trip. When Dad walked along the side of the house to throw out a bag of garbage, he was shocked to see a pile of vomit with a smaller pile of human shit of top of that. Our fence was also broken.
The morning when our father found Amanda’s vomit on her floor, our luck ran out.
“Okay Matt,” Dad said as he closed his flip phone and approached Amanda’s room, “pack up all your things and call your mom.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’re moving out.”
I was too stunned to speak.
“Pack up your room,” he said slowly, while looking everywhere but in my eyes, “and let’s go. You gotta be out of here before Tam gets home.”
I looked at Amanda and she at me, but neither of us said a word. It was no more her fault than mine, and we both knew that. I was so unbearably hungover with nausea, cold sweats, hangxiety, and fatigue that it was hard to process the emotions that I should have felt.
Amanda laid on my bed as I packed all the materialistic pieces of my life into boxes. We were mostly silent as I packed, occasionally commenting when something sparked a memory. When I finished packing, Amanda—still in her plush robe—walked to the front porch with me and we gave our last hug as roommates. We stood there, arms wrapped around each other, not saying a word. Dad stood off to the side and kept silent. I think that deep down, he was sad to see me go, but—as a father—it was probably more difficult to see me live the way I was living.
When we arrived at my mother’s one bedroom apartment across town, Dad helped me unload the van. My brother Dylan—who was kicked out a couple years earlier for bad behavior—already occupied our mom’s living room. So, I set up my bed and dresser in the kitchen and hugged my pillow until I drifted into the next chapter of my life.
Untitled
By Yvan Gelbard
The first stanza is a semi-mystical musing on “the self”, inspired in part by Ram Dass. Excerpts of Carl Jung’s and other Jungians’ writing—often around the theme of the shadow vs. light—inspired the rest of the poem, which came from a place of trying to see my own shadow/dark side (and embrace it). The idea is that once I accept myself fully for who I am, only then do I give myself permission to change.
I’ve heard it said that at our core
is a glowing ember which is to be fanned
& the flame that ignites is who we are
& the ashes fall like castles made of sand.
Then again, we may be luminous beings
not because we are an energy source,
but rather we are reflecting things—
not a sun, but a moon & nothing more.
“Light casts no shadow” may be a myth
the way we’re not really born pure of heart.
The truth is that the shadow exists;
the task is to know it ‘fore the soul departs.
May i wear your crown
By Christopher Tapp
This is a spread from my collection 'may i wear your crown'. the prose piece was written during 2020 after my city was in lock down for awhile & I got sober. I began to realize the city would drastically change for a long time and I would never get to fully experience how lively it was before 2020 (i'd always be blackout drunk before that).
art by: Oak S.L. @oakmtltattoo / words by: Christopher Tapp @chris.t.poetry
1.
i built the foundation of my recovery
with broken bottles,
scotch tape
and sticky corks,
the floors and walls may seem unsteady
a tad too creaky
for your liking
but that is just fine with me
because my sobriety
is not a one size fits all thrifted tee
that gets passed on down from dad to son
it is a map of tunnels leading me through
rock bottom to clear skies
- my sobriety does not belong to you
2.
the drinking for me
was the loving i never got from those who should’ve provided it
it was the affirmations my therapist told me to practice in the mirror
it was the, you are enough, from every boy that ended up leaving
it was the only safe spot in a small town full of violence
the drinking was what half of my heart missed
it made up for the social anxiety, depression
anything the psychiatrist could label me with next
drinking cured that
i had a voice again. i was writing my best material.
drinking made me
entertaining
chris? oh, he’s just the fun one.
the social butterfly.
the one to blackout with on friday
and reminisce with on saturday
about how we had so much fun last night
we did have fun last night, right?
drinking for me
filled the empty hole in my chest that i was too cold to deal with
so instead it’s wine glasses laced with g.h.b
rum and coke but extra rum, please
beer bottles laced with guilt
i’m so sick of feeling guilty
someone just take this guilt, please
i’m on both knees
so drinking for me,
well drinking for me fixes everything
but nothing all at once
like they’d say in math class
two negatives makes a positive
so let me add every rock bottom into pairs and wait for that miracle
12 steps forwards
12 steps backwards
this is too much work for somebody who loves instant fixing
when i already know what can fix me
i just need one more fix, please
3.
i moved away at eighteen. danced in circles of smoke. kissed a hundred new boys. i tried convincing myself that i was a beautiful mess. yelled at my sister for existing. stole her car for blackout joy rides. drank with friends. kissed my friends. felt free (because of my friends). i created a world full of the quickest ectascy. i ignored my mother. blocked out her cries: screaming my name over and over. crying my name. over and over. come back home. i thought growing up meant i had to grow apart from something. had to be mysterious. had to have a rock bottom story. why do i glamorize death? why do i wish for heartache? where does this need for pain come from?
may i wear your crown by Christopher Tapp
Rest the boulders, save the knees
By Constance Y
This is a poem about painful coercion into someone else's healing, saving tactics.
@coyote_invictus
it will help you,
it will help you,
miserable help rained down.
the gods of his that had bouldered down my shoulders and legs,
stricken me head to knee
it rained it RAINED
his help down.
warbling body of mine
weighing only
as a thunder sheet
and a wide stare,
how could i stand without those knees.
arms over head i yielded, and i wish you could have known the way my hands wrung after we drank.
the air swelled and my vision pinned fast to my heart
lest it rend completely.
how the room swirled and swam with the heavy iron
taste of need
as if that would help.
i told him
our bodies are somewhere
our bodies are SOMEWHERE
my wringing hands still feel around for my body
lost to the visual snow of an idea
that could HELP me.
he called it medicine, and she called it medicine
and they sang about it with their guitars and pens,
and i lament it.
in truth i hobbled away still burdened,
but the boulders are down.
my knees and hands cant get any more help,
thank god,
thank god,
Seed of Trauma
By Jyn Nolan
Many of us who find ourselves in active addiction are there because of traumatic experiences we have as children. This is about rewriting your narrative and owning your future.
Seeds of Trauma by Jyn Nolan
Safe
By S.S
She remembered pain
She remembered fear
She remembered damage.
Holes punched in the walls, bruises on her face
Her heart ready to burst from the fire.
Mixed up memories, painful still today.
She remembered tears,
Covered ears,
All the screaming.
But remembering is for the past.
She knows she saved them, saved herself
She knows her strength, her wild courage
She knows the bright sunshine of her children’s laughter
She knows that they are safe.
She knows that she exists.
The Caramel Center of Transformation
By Anne Marie Cribbin
In high school my friends and I would walk over to the Hecht Co., (a local department store) after the bell rang and take up space in the electronics section in the most obnoxious way. Our uniform blouses untucked and back packs slung on one shoulder. McDonalds french fries and chocolate shakes in hand and oh my gosh we were loud. We would park ourselves in front of the big screen tv's and catch the last few minutes of General Hospital and then watch Oprah. We lived for Oprah's before and after makeovers of audience members. Some soul nominated by a bestie, or partner, or parent. Their story told on national television and communal tears wept and then they were whisked away only to come back 45 minutes later completely transformed. Unrecognizable to their loved ones. Mouths gaping at the magic of bangs and form fitting knits. They were shiny and new and everything had changed due to proud sponsors L'oreal and Talbots. We would lock in our conditioning for instant gratification by dipping our fries into our shakes and toasting to the After.
When I quit drinking I was angry. I was pissed that sobriety wasn't instant. That it wasn't enough to decide I wanted to quit drinking. That there was no studio audience to cheer over my choice to not order wine at lunch. I was angry that change was slow and hard and tiring and lonely. I was the Veruca Salt of sobriety - I wanted it now. I wanted to walk behind a curtain and come back out and be changed. I wanted my After.
The daily work of recovery has shifted my mind set about before and afters. Touching on my sobriety daily allows me to hang out in the space of the middle. The space of unfolding and evolution. The space of slow ripening and savored sweetness. A reminder that I am always in the process of becoming. My story is continuously being written. My truest and most authentic self being revealed in every obstacle I overcome and lesson learned. I like to call this space The Caramel Center of Transformation. This is the good part. And oh my goodness it is also the very hardest part. It's the sticky part. The gooey, messy, treacly, part. The gummed, molasses part. The part where you have to move slow to keep your self upright but also to savor every sugared moment. This is the mess of the middle. And friend you are strong enough to make your way through. Let's set our sights on the pleasure of becoming.
In celebration of the middle, I offer you this poem -
Caramel and Marrow
We danced around the periphery with fairy wings
Throwing glitter that caught the light
Hips swaying in the shimmer
The tall grass moving with us
Pinkies locked and promises made to step into the center
This was our time
Full moon freedom on a Saturday afternoon
"We can't go over it. We can't go under it."
Sweet chants of childhood cheering us on
Eyes closed. Count to 3. Then leap.
Into the caramel and marrow
The center of the magic
With it's swirls and swells and tyrant twisters
And sandbars and shady weeping willows too
We took flight in the mess of the middle
Our dime store wings made of wire and tulle and plastic rhinestones
Fastened to our shoulders with shoestrings
They were strong enough to carry us through
I love you.
-Anne Marie (she/her)
Dreams
By Laura McCaffrey
Laura McCaffrey is a writer and communications professional who writes about sobriety and self-discovery. In her spare time, she does hot girl sh*t like reading, paint-by-numbers, cooking and lifting heavy weights. She’s vegan, sober, introverted, and really fun at parties. You can find her writing on Medium and connect with her on Instagram.
Growing up, I dreamed of being a writer.
I had a vision of sitting at a large oak desk, notebook open in front of me.
I perch there quietly for hours on end, contemplating life, my thoughts, the world. I sip coffee before my family awakens, basking in the glow of soft morning light cascading through the open window. Beyond the pane, I see trees – birch, maple, pine. I hear birds chirping, friendly yet incessant. A dog is curled at my feet, sleepy and relaxed. A cat (or two) purr softly somewhere behind me.
I breathe slowly, deeply, a lazy smile stretching across my face. This is my haven, my happy place. The place where my ideas consume me. The place where stories and memories and musings pour out of me and take shape on the page.
I dreamed it so clearly. That scene was like a glistening, shimmering bubble in my mind; a bright balloon floating up, up, up toward the life I always wanted.
And then, my vision was clouded by a dark mass, like angry overcast skies darkening a sweltering August afternoon. I met a sinister friend – my wolf in sheep’s clothing. Day after day, it whispered lies in my ear. It told me my passions were misplaced. It convinced me that I wasn’t good enough at any of the things I wanted to do. It convinced me that dreaming was too hard, too much work. When I got sad, when I felt empty, it told me it could fill the void. It assured me that it was the only thing I needed to be happy. Eventually, I believed it.
Alcohol was the wolf.
Alcohol was the pin prick that popped my helium dreams.
–
I can pinpoint the moment I stopped dreaming. It was the moment I, for the very first time, chose alcohol over a passion. It was the moment I put the illusion of what alcohol could give me before the reality of my own potential. It was the first time I listened to the wolf.
I started playing basketball in the second grade, and I played competitively – high school, provincial, Canada Games – throughout my teenage years. Like I dreamed of being a writer, I dreamed of being a basketball player. It was my first love. My entire life, my entire identity. At the time, it was the only thing that gave me true, unwavering confidence. On the court, I was self-assured. On the court, I was home.
The plan was always to play in university. But when the time came, I faltered. Seemingly out of the blue, I decided to hang up my sneakers, leave the ball in the rack, and walk away.
Would I have made it? Maybe. Maybe not. The point is, I didn’t try.
I gave up on my dream.
I told myself I wanted to find out who I was outside of basketball. I didn’t want to do two-a-days, morning runs, constant training and practicing; I had lived that already. I wanted to focus on my social life, on fully experiencing university – which, as it turns out, meant binge drinking with strangers. I wasn’t willing to give up the glamorous image of boozy college-age socializing, not even for the one thing that truly lit me up.
I was 18 years old and already, it was too late to escape. The wolf had its claws stuck firmly in my flesh, pulling me down, holding me back.
–
Over the years, alcohol continued to take me away from myself. It muted me, dulled my light, dampened my fire. My creativity, passions, interests and values faded. I faded, like a newspaper left too long in the sun.
Instead of the big, bold, vibrant person that I knew I was meant to be, I fell flat. I became one dimensional. I was an outline of a person, etched feather-light on the page of my life.
I devoted my whole being to having fun. To losing myself to alcohol, just for a while. Slowly, imperceptibly, a while became for good. I became someone I didn’t know. I had made my home in a quiet little comfort zone – no dreaming, no risk-taking, just shrinking in the shadow of this poison that kept me stuck. I was a passenger in my own life: along for the ride, but not really living.
It wasn’t until I stopped that I realized what I had lost. Suddenly, it became clear to me that I didn’t know what I liked, what I did for fun. I didn’t have hobbies or passions or dreams. The ravenous wolf had devoured it all, leaving me with nothing. I had become a shell of my former self.
–
Today, just over 100 days sober, I’m coming back to life. I’m finding out what brings me joy and running toward it. I’m lining my empty shell with old passions and new hobbies. I’m rebuilding myself, piece by piece, filling in the outline of me so I’m whole. I’m taking a sledgehammer to my comfort zone and learning to dream again.
My vision, the one that I had seen so vividly, is coming back into focus. The version of it that I’m living is not quite what I imagined, but it’s close, and it’s mine. I’m not a novelist, a columnist or a full-time freelance writer, but I am writing again. I am sitting in my home office –my real-life haven that looks exceptionally close to what I had envisioned – sharing my thoughts with the world, with myself. I’m healing my old wounds through this quiet, contemplative expression. I’m finding myself as I find my voice.
As it turns out, that’s enough. That was the dream all along.
As it turns out, I just needed to slay the wolf before I could have it.
Ode to a Fisherman
By Melissa M
My name is Melissa M, I'm a thirty-something California native residing in Midland, Texas. I have an eighteen year old, and a two year old, both girls. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I write for my own therapy and healing mostly. On my blog, I will openly discuss anything from addiction to abuse to a new recipe I like.
Hear the dark water slap and steady your hat, see the glare from the black-capped night heron
He’s guarding his nest and he gets little rest, feel the mist- It conceals calm seas
Wild, Wild, West keep that close to your chest, you grip spools with salt covered hands
Though you can’t see the line, we’ll say everything’s fine because these royals wave, they don’t waver
Sun breaches horizon, if you could just keep your eyes on, the prize, because we’ve got to eat
The battles begun, no time for fun keep your wits or end up in the locker
The elements placid, eyes squint as you’ve “fasted” for a fortnight-
Time carries this vessel
Mortality, inconsequential
Navigate the unknown on his wings-
A beacon of light- The sun singed his might
The loudest quiet that you’ve ever heard-
Anchors away, because you can’t stay
Breakwater as big as it’s been
I feel like I’m losing, shark has to keep moving
Untie the knot and just let this one go
You’ve made it to port
The foghorn like a siren, you watch the tide pull away
Sand slips through hands, as the tales of a man and the sea that’s his home-
Look down at the water, reflections, your daughter, I can see you although you have gone-
Hear the clear water cry and the white egret fly, see the legend that lives in the waves now
Collateral Advantage
By Mei McIntosh
These following poems are a reflection of the 3 passages of healing I have experienced in the last year.
Sobriety
Mental Heath
Relationships
There is always a beginning, then 'the end' is up to you.
Perseverance
Consolation pressed
Layers undressed
Persist in measure
With diamond pressure.
Disappointment summons
When divine trumpets
Often sectioned around
Streams of pink cloud.
Resort reverts to getaway
Persuasion replaces vain
Charity goes deeper since
Profit lines misrepresent.
Biology stems from building up
Wanting to fill this cup.
Sharing mine in service
For a greater purpose.
Neuro Dance
Innovation lies
Despite truth-seeking
Behind those eyes
Gray shows more feeling.
Nothing innocent notices
Meek as a lamb
Soul holds cold
Growing the monster.
Linear skylines
Manage none to some
More remains clear
My dusk, your sun.
Reach out these hands
Dust on knees
Circling here again
Wanting to release.
Coincide Contradiction
Merge insight of eyes
Magnetic understanding
What's yours is mine
All love, in all madness.
Blurred visions bold
Frayed communication
Intention to let go
Fruition becomes frustration.
Separation hurts like cuts
Under the surface rises
Without becomes mistrust
When shadows are reminded.
Lean into me, then away
An only ultimatum
The mist appeared into the day
Holding on to words verbatim.
Counterbalance Binge
By Al Stone
Poetry has been a source of healing from my trauma. This poem is about a younger less sure of herself woman.
I looked up at my clammy reflection from the porcelain pisser in the coed stall.
After the year of ballooning from alcohol and butter-drenched "foodstuff" I was done.
I craved to be "high-school" thin again.
So I resorted to the index-finger method.
After enjoying a meal of junk I hid;
My index-finger and I cried together where the regurgitated regret fled and I for a moment, was thin again.
Buddha at the Bar
By Al Stone
This piece is about my time as a waitress. I was not yet sober, but the cast of characters I met during this time impacted me. Jesse, the main character of this poem is based on a real person.
Three on the nose the bartender pours his rum double mix with ginger. He Stumbles in, exhausting his pigeon-grey hoodie, cargo shorts, and crocs.
He grunts, for a passer by is sitting in the seat with thick whittled letters "J.E.S.S.E." The bartender whispers to the partisan who slouches to the next seat over.
Jesse reclaims his thrown, crosses his legs like Siddharta Gautama and twists his unrestricted dust speckled feet as he lights his first Marlboro Red.
Members of the regular gang come in one after another, Jesse giving his say-so nod.
Repartee resides to the weather, movies, music, sports.
Jesse offers a cagey-smirk while fondling the scraggly chocolate straw on his cheeks and credits a round of Jagermeister shorts for his associates to his tab.
Three wanes to seven as the waitress wanders in for a beer; the night young. She sits two over from Jesse for his trying jester disapprovingly has his ear.
The fool whiffs her virgin breath introducing himself with a firm handshake & profiling her name, job, major, interests as if she was on trial. She bequeaths short, one word answers and deprives him of eye contact.
Jesse pauses his calm, "Leave her alone! She doesn't want to talk to you, am I wrong?" He probes. She mumbles, "No..." and the drunk scuffles off to his next victim.
The waitress swallows the last of her second IPA and asks for her bill. Jesse intercepts her reach and affirms, "Put it on my tab." She grins a warm thank you and strides out into the chilling wilderness of the city.
Seven into eleven rings the inebriating wasteland, beckoning souls to the vortex of tasks on intermission:
Chubby stubble faced losers who haven't fucked a woman ever,
Awkward college drop outs who find security in a bottle of Yuengling,
Confident and towering dealers of blunt--wit & reefer,
Straight-laced heroines striving for trophy wife status,
Lovers hands interlocked in the drunken jazz of the jukebox,
Jesse, the lord watching over these lost underdogs.
Closing time like the vibration of a skipping record player, the last of the drifters scatter. Jesse questions the bartender, "How are you making out on rent this month?" The bartender exhales, "It's gonna be tight, to be honest. The crowds have been pretty dry."
Jesse gestures for his tab, scribbles in a $500 tip, zips up his jacket, hood over his head and footfalls the two blocks to his hollow.
Buddha at the bar is the quiet observer, the guardian of his menage, guiding troubled souls to a benign asylum they can call home.
I KNOW
By Krysty Krywko
To the woman at the far end of the parking lot.
Standing outside her car in her yoga pants.
Smoking a cigarette.
I see you.
I know what it’s like to need to take that pause. To have that cigarette. To have that drink. To try and just feel a little more alive.
It’s like trying to give yourself some sort of boost before you have to head back into your life. To take that time out for yourself. You feel like you’re losing yourself a little more each day.
I know what it’s like to be lonely, even though you’re surrounded by people – your partner, your children, your friends.
I know what it’s like to feel empty, even though you are surrounded by so much.
You have all the things. The house. The husband. The cars. The luxury vacations. But there is a gaping hole inside of you that can’t be filled.
I know what it’s like to feel as if you’ve lost yourself. To look in the mirror and not even be sure of who you see behind those eyes. The girl that had all those dreams might still be there, but she’s getting harder and harder to find.
I know what it’s like to long for connection, in a land of superficiality.
There is a part of me that wishes I had wandered over and introduced myself. I wonder where our conversation might have led. But I stayed in my car, and sent you a prayer instead.
May our paths cross again.
Because, I know.
I know there is a way out your loneliness.
I know there is a way to find yourself again, and all those parts you left buried for so long.
I know there is a way for you to stay true to who you are, and still be there for the people you love.
I know, because I have found my way to the other side of everything. Of how numb, and sad, and scared, and alone I felt.
I know, because recovery has led me to everything I thought I had lost, including myself.
May our paths cross again.
Because, I know…