12/09/20
I find myself taking my prescription meds with alcohol.
If that doesn’t spell “help,”
I don’t know what it is
To be found
Would be nice because, frankly,
I’m always lost
In
The noise
Is driving me mad.
I’m not sure if I’d even recognize Sanity anymore
If she passed me on the street,
I wouldn’t know.
Pills and alcohol.
That’s safe, right?
Pills and alcohol.
Am I ok?
Laughable.
Who even is Sanity?
Would we get along?
I think our brains work too differently.
I feel like Sanity doesn’t have enough personality.
I think in disjointed segments
And I feel that
My thoughts are like toddlers—
They’re loud and clumsy and
They don’t always make sense
To others
It sounds like nonsense
But I get it—
Usually.
“Help” sounds like everything because
Life is just hard,
So pills and alcohol it is
Because Stability and Sanity are related,
And I don’t really know either.
About the Creator
Emery Pine
I’m a poet with sprinklings of fiction. I write with the soul, so I hope you find it interesting and relatable
Keep reading
More stories from Emery Pine and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.