Twenty Five

Twenty Five

A year ago today, I published a poem along with text messages from my father, outing him as an abuser and an alcoholic who refuses to take responsibility for his actions. I was always there for him and remain unappreciated. I have forgiven him for what he has done to me. What I cannot forgive is what he said about my mother. And I learned from him, and took a step forward, and haven’t spoken to him since. Read “Father Dearest” here. I’ve spent a lot of time in the rooms of AA. Try as I might I couldn’t get my head around a higher power, and around having to give up drinking for the rest of my life at the age of twenty-three. I viewed it as an ending and as a compromise of my ideals. I first entered AA in January of 2014. I went to meetings, went to...

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You’re Not Decent [Eve]

You’re Not Decent [Eve]

What if you woke up one day with no knowledge of who you were? This original short story explores how we would feel about our bodies without societal pressure- if we didn’t know our ‘flaws’ were flaws.     I’m not exactly sure where I am. There’s a draft coming in from the open window, the sun is shining. I see dust particles shimmer through the air as I throw back the covers. I think I should be afraid, but what I feel is more wonder than terror. I jump back in surprise when I pass a window. But it’s not a window, it’s a mirror. I don’t recognize me. Who am I? My hair is disheveled, messy ringlets fall out of what’s left of a ponytail. My body feels cushiony and soft and warm. I am pleasantly fuzzy- the sun shines across my hairy...

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Trustworthy

Trustworthy

Maybe it’s an age thing Or a woman thing Or an addict thing But it’s a ludicrous thing To not know Your own mind Or to lack confidence In your opinions. I’m always Looking over my shoulder. Always asking What someone else wants, Or feels, or needs, Or double checking That I’m not bothering them To the point that I’m sure I am. I’m conscious of The way I eat: How and what and when. I worry about taking up space- How close my chair is to the table, I cross my legs on the metro, I avoid an occupied kitchen, Offer to sit in the back of the car, Even curl into a ball in my own bed. Where do I want to go? Anywhere is fine. Am I hungry? I don’t know- are you? I want to contribute without pressure, I want to help without demand. I concern myself with the needs of others,...

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Tobacco

Tobacco

As I drove in the dark Past the tobacco fields, Sopping wet From the torrential rains, I became aware Of this singular moment in time. I read somewhere That some doctor Did some study That said the present, The actual, current, As-it’s-happening present, Is anywhere from three to twelve seconds. So three to twelve seconds Is all we have To recognize what’s happening, As-it’s-happening, Before the present Becomes the past And is lost forever, Faded into memory- Even the short term kind. And there I was My cigarette in my left hand, Holding the steering wheel, My right hand on the gear shift, The radio playing an old country song, My hair blowing around, And getting pelted By tiny raindrops From the window I’d cracked To let the smoke escape. I was keeping my eyes...

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Father Dearest

Father Dearest

Imagine a girl Trapped in a liquor bottle. This is all she sees- The inappropriate drinking Of her alcoholic father And not old enough To know any different. Sometimes she’s let out, Breathes fresh air, But it’s jarring Because she’s now accustomed to The smell of it. The smell of sickness permeating the house, Of sweat mixed with bile mixed with beer And the perfectly constructed excuses Falling out of her mother’s mouth She desperately copies As if this will somehow save her. As if they’re not all drowning together. And in the wash of alcohol, Behind the effervescence her mother Has so carefully created To further block the view, To keep you from looking too closely, In it is her sister, This darling girl She only wants to protect, Who she mothers and loves and...

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