Getting Well

Ember flares, breathe in.

The crackle of ash tickles my throat,

open your eyes, this wallow high

never lasts long enough. 

This group I’m in feels dizzy––

none of my friends see straight

morality twisting, turning 

birthing from our torsos, double helixes. 

Like staying in bed all day.

Past is past is passed,

shove it down, dissolve it in whiskey.

Take the shot, slam the glass

if it breaks, all the better––

Mix and match it in my bloodstream,

a cocktail of internal cacophony. 

Her eyes terrify me, sting my stomach;

it’s passive aggression that wilts my lily.

Listen honey––

Not everyone is blue skies and good people

least of all the succinct cocoon I call

myself.  

Haven’t slept in a month

and I’m not starting now.

Kathryn Smith