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Author: Sydney L.

Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.

He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.

Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.

And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.

It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back

That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:

Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower

Than Miracle

Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.

He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.

Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.

And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.

It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back

That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:

Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower

Than almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.

But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.
almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.

But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.

Author: Sydney L. Men would envy, women crave

Author: Alicia R.

I let out a sigh but not one meant for frustration,
More like the one when your landing home from vacation.
Looking back two years prior
When my only concern was to get higher.

That darkness creeps over me like fallen smoke,
Stealing my breath and I choke.
From memory of the sickness that once consumed me
Maintaining how grateful and fortunate that I am now free.

With demons gone, those that I abhor
Pure bliss, laughter and love radiates through my core
I can give my children the life they deserve
These new memories I can now preserve.
If and when those temptations arise
Fleetingly come and go but will not be my demise!

Let my strength and faith shine hope for others still in a dark abyss
There is a way out and you can overcome this!
With enthusiasm to live and a hand reaching out
There is no blackness that you can not surmount!

Author: Alicia R. I let out a sigh

Author: Tricia L.

There is an
ACHE
a heavy-hearted feeling, I cannot equate anything to…

A shadow of sadness behind my smile as I mention your name
because of what
LIES
beneath….

I try each second to engulf you with all the layers of
LOVE
my body can give to make this pain disappear from your being…

I try to remain in SILENCE,

convince myself it is not there….
I try to welcome their presence… but they insist on remaining
HIDDEN

Small GEESE colored GREY trailing one another,
The BIG and small BLUE SKYY, seen below
Ostentatiously organic, RAIN drops in volume
A Representative special of its kind, with refined ingredients from The Capital City of Russia, stoic STOLI.
The FOREIGN UNCLE… PAVING THE WAY AND WAS THE ONE & ONLY… TIL THE OTHERS BECKONED TO BE PART OF THE SECRET

I try to
BLINK
them away, a figment of my imagination
They continue to
REAPPEAR
surprise, and catch me off guard

I try not to succumb into
TEARS,
to crumble in my vulnerability
To remain
STRONG, COURAGEOUS
I try not to buckle, I fell in heaps of sobs
I try not to continue in the evening

Author: Tricia L. There is an ACHE a heavy-hearted feeling,

Author: Meredith C.

There are no good words to explain, no shovel precise enough
to dig that deep around the arteries and veins
to that fiery heart at 120 beats
pounding beneath the wooden lid of this disease.

but let me try, as I sit on the broken planks
I clawed my own way through
fingernails still full of dirt and splintered pine
all these years later.

I leave them that way to remember
how from that wrecked last day on my knees
I waved the bloody white flag of no more
not knowing for sure what that would mean.

Which is how I found you, all fury and flash
running so fast between each Marlboro red
dancing demon on the bottle of your favorite nip
not even close to done, your will as tough as old leather.

That day at the hospital, possessed
you tore the tubes from your skin
and snaked past the nurses and out the door
to the hot summer heat of your cinnamon whiskey.

So many days lost and so were you
out there somewhere and making sure
that if you were alive to tell it,
you would have quite the story one day.

Adding to that tale, 66 proof of promises and lies
until from someone else’s shaking hands
you felt the rough jab of the needle
so deep in your young vein for the very first time.

Then coming to in a dirty unlit hallway
no one is too good for anything out there
not even you, crawling to a stop
a new depth dug at your last call.

From the constant scratches underneath the lid
from your brown eyes wild, I could see
miles across the char and flame
this one here, she is just like me.

And once all the fight and flight bled out
nothing left but the ragged sleep of a haunted heart
with just enough fear left to flee
and enough to know there is nowhere else to go.

And now with heart calm and eyes clear
the demon long exorcised from your blood
you are the fireball, a red hot ball of fire that will streak across the dark day
you once slid beneath, dreaming of the end.

No longer pulling up the warm blanket of dirt that thudded down
and scattered across the lid, you let me sit with you
on your broken planks, your fingernails still full of dirt and pine
and your will as tough as new leather.

Author: Meredith C. There are no good words

Author: Meredith C.

When something’s dead, they tell me
it rests.
I don’t see that—I see mistaken black toes with tags
worming up from kicked over dirt
when it rains.

It comes back when you bury it alive,
they say, shaking a finger.
I believe you, I lie.

My own head
this little thing–
I popped off and dropped into a bottle
twisted the cap tightly around its neck
and hurled into the current.

It drifted to places I don’t remember
it drifted to places I’d long since left
it bobbed and floated on
from trembling hands at dusk
to sweat-drenched dreams at dawn.

I tried to hold the head under, I even untwisted the cap
and waited for the bubbles to emerge
for the mouth to fill and flow over, churning the body upside down—
the last of that little girl, until it sank
to settle motionless on the bottom.

I am a conundrum, a bloated baby with searching eyes
staring pickled from round walls in a sealed jar.
I am the same thing I gazed at, mouth hanging
till my mother dragged me away by the hand.
I am, I am, still choking on the water in the womb I swam away from.

And then all those years later, all eyes on me
to which I said, fuck you
and ran away with the first love I ever knew.

My cup ran over and I awoke a day later,
surfacing in a crowd of featureless faces and are you okay?
there’s too much blood in my alcohol system
they diagnose and prescribe while I fold them all into a tight square
and leave it in the bottom of my coffee cup.

Rest in peace, Doc, and then I am swimming
and when I get tired I float on my back
till my head hits the solid shore, and I sleep.

It comes back, they say
when you bury it alive.
I believe you now, I reply.

The dirt frozen hard, the water frozen still
the womb a broken bottle.
And the mind, that little thing, it’s something anyway–
because sometimes, when everything’s quiet
I can almost hear it kick.

Author: Meredith C. When something’s dead, they tell

Author: Meredith C.

It’s my favorite part
that slow ride from the buzz
the stirring of mind, waking of senses
both in body and perception
some sharpened, others dulled
in all the right places
for me to glide.

When it’s time, I am ready.
I have been ready
senses now alert, looking, waiting
for the taste on my tongue
finally and at last
another day done, another night begins
the wet on my lips, second to none.

Even the anticipation
sometime hours before the first taste
quickens my heart.

Like the chemist or the cook
measuring for just the right balance
that perfect combination of ingredients
where I think I become formidable
completely contained but free
bold, gliding through the hours
To become finally, in perfect control of me.

The buzz in my touch, full
the buzz on my skin flares
blazing across the full length of me
the buzz in my mind, binding me
to this very minute, there is only now
the buzz finally burning down my walls
to the ground, I rise up and go down.

Even the anticipation
sometime hours before the first touch
sparks the match.

Another round and I am flowing over
topping off my audacity, what I think is charm
spilling over yet calling for more
every drink served shrinking me back down
deadening my senses, deadening my heart
dropping me and reminding me through closed red eyes
why the buzz to the drunk
is my favorite part.

Author: Meredith C. It’s my favorite part that slow

Author: Frankie O.

Awake in the morning
Starts a new day
No fear on awakening
Is the start of today’s play

Doors without locks
Unbarred windows
Comfy sheets clean and dry
I didn’t wake and start to cry

Fish in the fish tank
Birdsong received
A prayer in the morning
Is what I perceive

It says that I am thankful
It asks for his help
To be grateful for his mercy
Kind to them I might help

Coffee in the morning
Maybe even toast
Not gagging in the bathroom
With that mirror’s awful roast

The van is on the driveway
It’s insured it’s even taxed
Who knew the time just flew
Van is even waxed

I am great full to be me today
I wouldn’t have thought there would come a day
When great-full words
Would be mine to say

Author: Frankie O. Awake in the morning Starts a

Author: Maggie Millian

There’s so much pain.

It feels like an ocean.

Sometimes the ocean is calm and sunny.

But when there’s a storm,

And the water gets choppy

I feel the waves crashing against my body.

But the thing is

that even when it is sunny,

The ocean is still there.

And I know what the water is capable of doing to me.

How quickly it can turn on me.

How the water can lift me up 

And deliver me back down 

gently.

Or it can drown me. 

And when the storm comes,

The problem is,

I never know if it will pass.

And I certainly can’t remember how the sun felt.

All I can remember is the grief of knowing that sunshine was once possible.

Author: Maggie Millian There’s so much pain. It feels