Poets logo

We Will Call Her Midnight

By Jamie Ramsay

By Jamie RamsayPublished 6 months ago 2 min read

In a land of skyscrapers and violence, a young girl had a ten minute phone call with a strange man she didn’t know, who prescribed her pills for a sickness he couldn’t even be sure she had.

A helpless bottle beside her bed, too full, too easy.

Two, easy.

Three, easy.

Do not drink.

We will call this girl, Midnight.

Midnight loved alcohol. Midnight loved the way it inspired her, loved the burn it gave on an empty stomach. She read carefully, online, what the side effects could be, and dipped her toes in gently.

Before the pills, Midnight lived foggy days; she was used to constant aching spins, a pasty mouth, feet on a wire until it was time to sleep, and she couldn’t.

Midnight doesn’t talk about the pills.

She’s afraid if she says the word out loud, people will hear the word hungry instead of help.

Midnight always shows up early.

Him and I, we never go to sleep.

I’ve been wilting like an unkempt flower, because I forget, because I want to punish myself.

I am a sink that won’t drain.

I don’t work hard enough.

This mindset is

thick, gripping, muddy,

but it’s such an easy substance to make.

I've mastered the recipe, and sometimes it feels better to drown in the warmth of the anger, like a bath, than to get out of bed and do my laundry, or write something purposeful.

I will see my grandpa in twelve days.

What will it be like to meet him again? As for who I am?

Do I bring up the red wagon?

Do I bring up her?

Grandma Gil,

the carpeted walls of their basement, his car in the garage,

the scent.

Do I talk about the house?

I’m afraid, and I miss her.

I sleep with Henry every night, I think her ashes have leaked sometimes.

I will bring Henry when I go to see my Grampa. It’s been a few years I think, now.

Henry, with Gramma’s ashes on his neck.

We will call her Midnight.

She sits on a school chair with wheels, in an empty classroom on a Saturday.

The sky is gray, and evening is arriving like a secret, here.

Her crackers and cheese are wrapped in tinfoil on the writer’s desk.

Today happens for Midnight, like a Saturday is meant to.




A cool breeze through the open classroom window.




surreal poetryslam poetrysad poetryperformance poetrynature poetrylove poemsinspirationalheartbreakfact or fictionart

About the Creator

Jamie Ramsay

Every word is chosen from my throat, in the moments I feel too human.

I am your guide into the sinkhole.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2023 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.