Wicked Witch Screaming for a Shot Then Crying No Polish in the store for sale
This morning I thought a million reasons I should either give up or try harder. I knew I’m only living now for my pets, and to “not hurt” my family by doing drastic, painful measures. You die eventually anyway, just gotta ride it out, why rush the inevitable anyway?
So, as I realized, “I’m hungover/psychologicallyscavenged/and gonna crash with my brain.” I did let myself cry, said my mom is right, I am a prototypical addict/alcoholic in denial just like Jason, I mean just like him, thinking cocktails in the morning are normal
if nothing else during these endtimes
trying to get the rush going, chasing feelings of okayness, avoiding the grief,
avoiding people, avoiding realizations that are painted vividly in my dreams
Everything I was taught that was a lie (most of what adults in 1988 taught kids in this country), and everything I weaved into a basket to carry all my eggs and how all the eggs rotted, and I gave the basket to the rats,
to unweave and hoard the rotten eggs, and people died, they keep dying,
everything I thought I could be, I cannot. why? because I’m ghetto, and I’ve been surviving too much to help anything. and I wasted most of what there was.
I felt skulls creeping for a seat next to me. Look at this, one of them said, stupid instagram feed: a picture of a woman with her head literally buried under the earth, a skeleton, and it said, “Let your dead go, don’t try to go with them.”
And I cried because I want to go with them.
And a lens appeared in which I was a villain, searching far and wide, all the stupid, selfish things I’ve done, so typical, and another voice said: use the lovey dovey lens/frame.
So I reframed it where I’m a survivor of patriarchal capitalism and all my decisions were reasonable, common, all my mistakes were widespread mistakes, and my failures made me a brother of men, and made me the forgotten sister, under my sisters lifted me up and said: WE WON’T LET YOU (MOM AND DAD) HURT HER ANYMORE.
And they said, it’s not your fault your a sociopath.
It’s not your fault you just want to sleep and live in the netherworld, the other world, where an old woman sleeps in the big house that waits for me, under quilts, in the basement, and if you sneak past her, there’s an extension of the house that reaches out over a rive, and long hallways with big closets, and the whole house is yours.
but in the other dreams, wars and wars and wars.
balancing in a raft that’s punched into the sea, a wheel of fortune with flippers, with fire, with smoke, and that’s the only other reality
that interests me. destroy everything.
I knew as I was (finally) crying that from another, objective lens, I was just experiencing the mundane minutes of withdrawal from a toxic substance (kratom). And that’s when I remembered detoxing from other real opiate-prescribed things, and Michelle the heroin girl who I miss and always love, my “wife” (the first one), just a boy that I knew from Long Island, there was never hope for us, but I’ll ALWAYS MISS YOUR BIG SPOON AND YOU PLUGGING MY EARS SO I COULD RELAX WITH YOUR LONG, SOFT FINGERS.
Lots of poetry about Michelle, all real. but poetry all I ever meant to do because I thought it would be ENOUGH and it’s not.
At least 6 arguments approached about how I wasn’t worth my human skin, but I made a deal:
I’ll TRY to quit tobacco, if you give me a little more time with kratom and alcohol. It might be too late for deals, and most of these deals go bad, but it’s the best I can do today, June 12, 2026.