I need to know how your night began. I want to know if the bottle of vodka sat half-empty in your pink-splattered bag or if you purchased it new several hours earlier.
I still had pizza on my breath: cornmeal crust, unconventional cheese choice of ricotta, some basil, and was that sausage or ground beef? I carried my guilt of $3.95 a slice coupled with anorexic wallet and pressure to make rent in a few weeks, when I noticed you.
You had been crying so hard that your nose was runny and how could none of those police officers offer you a tissue?
I’ve had nights like that, I wanted to whisper in your ear while simultaneously rubbing your back. Nights where I couldn’t remember the 26 letters creating the lyrics to the alphabet. Nights where I woke with fingerprints, not belonging to me, on my body. Nights where slurring replaced eloquence.
I wanted to yell at that police officer: Did you ask if you could look through her bag?
Who is your emergency contact? When was the last time you laughed so hard, you needed to change your underwear? When was the last time you were sober?
The last time I used, my drug of choice was given to me as payment for dog-sitting. I didn’t know it would be the last time and maybe it’s not, but it’s been five years.
A difference between alcoholism and drug addiction:
You can walk into a store and shelves are stocked with a variety of your addiction from Spain, Oregon, Canada, Brooklyn. You don’t need to use a fake name, meet in a dark alley, purchase through a secret handshake. Liquor stores are everywhere, kind of like Starbucks.
I notice pizza sauce on my finger and if I lick it am I being gluttonous or one step closer to catching whatever disease is invisible on my skin?
Life is risky.
It is Friday night and you lay like splattered paint against the sidewalk right off W. 4th Street. Before this, I was in a small room or attic with six other supportive queers in a writing group. Before this, you were_______________________…………..