In the Shower with My Clothes On

“Write,” said the grey, concrete wall of this hospital parking structure.

Don’t sit there and cry.

This is your life, and you chose this.

I am a classic crash-out.

I am the one who jumps into the mouth of the world’s darkest abyss—

the “unknown.”

I just want to feel something,

even if it hurts me.

Make me feel

something.

Ugly.

Beautiful.

Sweet.

Horrible.

Unspeakable.

Unfathomable.

Just make me feel.

Feel.

I am drunk.

I’m okay with that.

I’m my father’s daughter.

I am something—

good,

bad.

I couldn’t tell you.

I could ask you what you think,

but what would that matter?

Who cares what you think?

Who cares what I think?

What does it matter?

What would it matter?

It doesn’t.

It won’t be long now before I’m in the ground anyway.

Jose Cuervo almost took me out when I was 23.

Choking

on the bathwater.

I’m in my clothes.

Water pouring over the sides of the tub.

Tepid water.

I’m in her head again suddenly.

I’m under the water.

Muffled noises

running faucet

and the shouts

of who found me.

I’m so sorry.

I didn’t wake up and decide to hurt anyone.

I am just

me.