Being Sober Feels So Good When You’re Drunk

When I drink, I eat so good and sleep so bad.

When enough isn’t enough — the last drop schemes my mind into thinking that the words in my head are formulating the wizardry of a stately coma.

When I run to get one more — the wind in my ear is euphorically menacing.

Faster! Remove the headphones. Faster.

When the steady drip of it collides with the tongue of my despair — I am ravished by what’s around me.

Work done. Nothing lost. Everything gained.

The next day into the next into the next. News about sudden loss.

Awakened distress in the haze of planning the next.

An accident. Tragic. And yet the comfort comes in vibrant hues of green and yellow.

Another loss. Unexplained. And yet the sorrow flows into my mouth and on paper.

It’s beautiful. But nobody cared.

I was ugly. So grossly perfect in my ability to assuage my fears and neglect by cursing God and daring myself to drown in a puddle of empty plastic.


I stopped. I have risen. It has begun. The cleaning up. The making up. The battered souls that departed need answers.

So do I.

Why did it occur to me that I am now the eldest female cousin on my father’s side.

For the very first time.

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