What’s Down

It’s the little things, like the sudden urge to use
pepper spray as an inhaler.  Like realizing that smile
is your new gag reflex.  Starting the purge
before the binge.  Opening your eyes to see you were
never awake in the first place.  Screaming until
your jaw dislocates.  Swallowing that hole you
want to punch through the wall.  It’s Thanksgiving weekend
hop-scotching families: Friday in the psych ward, Saturday
at a funeral.  Rufus Wainwright and his broken
Hallelujah.  Dwelling on someone you thought
would be the only one, wishing he wasn’t
lost to a carbon copy of yourself.  Knowing,
the last time you felt like this,
he was here for you.

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