By Lin Elizabeth
‘i think my mother may be a trigger in my drinking.’
‘i think that’s a good observation, why do you think that’
Remember when I sat crying on the hallway floor because when I was 18, you left me, 3 doors down from a man who stole the woman i could’ve been away from me at eleven on a bright sunday?
Mark was there, Must’ve been sunday You left again the day after I told you, you love me? Do people leave the ones they love this much? Is it always like this? Is that normal? Do people just go? Did I do that? Will I do that? How do I stop?
I stopped Drinking & Killing myself
remember when I told you I was a month sober and you still made it about you.
Sometimes I tell you I love you just to reassure myself, it’s all one sided in a way. True masochism.
Ry said it best. You just wanna hurt. You’re good at it. His fingers in my mouth and my mind worried about car oil on his fingers. late night phone calls. neediness. lust. Skipping classes for sex in his truck on cold mornings, where i could escape. I remember hands the best and I think that will never go away.
Sex is the best drug, I swear.
I haven’t even tried any really, but I don’t want to.
The hell I bring with me is undeserved.
My grandma keeps asking who I’d marry out of all the men I’ve seen. I tell her myself everytime now. It was him for the longest time, until I started going to AA and getting sober, no hesitation.
Me coming home from the work at the casino at 10 am, his lunch break at work at 10:30, me waiting on classes at noon, editing 10 page essays i wrote half-asleep the evening before, quick sex in our small aparment bathroom while he was supposed to be having lunch. it was usually me instead.
Now I choose me. The prize rabbit at the fair. pretty and not to be touched. never again
You never used to be so angry, you were always such a good, quiet girl, what happened? So innocent, modest, not as much of a bite back. Drugs change people. Trauma changes people— I just hate how I’m remembering everything i spent so many years of my life ruining my body and relationships to forget that existed.
Lin Elizabeth is a 25-year-old writing degree dropout. She’s hidden in the deep sinewy belly’s Arkansas’ River Valley. Writing about sexuality, sex work, trauma, addiction, and sobriety. Her poems have appeared in Applause Magazine, Hypertrophic Press, Sinkhole Quartley, the forthcoming Second-Chance press, and the Idle Class Magazine.