Her

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Crawling out from under my rock I feared the sunlight and the stares.

Moving through back alleys in the dark of night.

Like a rat looking for a morsel.

I drift in and out of bottles.

Listening to jazz tunes and singing off key to power ballads.

Longing to be longed for.

Creating foes and ignoring frenemies.

Falling on dance floors and kissing men who didn’t care.

A notch on their bed posts or back seats of their cars.

Certain parking lots are triggering.

The only thing that was true, was that I was troubled.

Like her.

A talent who heard from loved ones to change.

To get better to be better.

Stumbling into a world that doesn’t understand that mistakes can’t always be switched off.

Switching off then bitching off to other dark places

To more bottles.

My mother found me.

Always protecting her flock.

No matter how much of a fuck up I was.

I fucked up a lot.

I was good at it.

Really good at it.

But I always made it home.

Wherever that was at the moment.

Once I made it home,but didn’t make it to my room.

I didn’t even get my shoes off.

I sat there.

In the front landing, of my parents home.

The house my father built with his hands.

His sense of electrical systems by the plumbing was questionable.

We never used that simple chandelier anyways.

I sat under it.

Like fallen mistletoe.

Without a kiss.

Drunk Teddy was ready to face his bottomless bottle addiction.

Everyone drank.

I just drank often.

To the point of blacking out.  

To forget the ugliness.

To dance.

To fuck.

To get fucked up.

But now my unsteady ballet, kicklined me onto my ass.

I loved her deep voice.

Her fashion sense and style.

And her attitude.

I’d go non-gay for a day, just to flirt with her.

To kiss her.

To listen to her sing to me a tune that resonated between us both.

That morning it was bright.

The bingo Hall across the street in Rankin, was having a grand opening.

A BBQ and some poor schmuck, parading around like Elvis, and entertaining blue hairs with gambling problems.

I got a text from my sister.

Which was weird, because she was only in the basement of the home we grew up in, and now we resided in as young adults.

Maybe she wanted to watch a movie or do something as siblings, after my hangover wore off.

I read her text.

“Amy Winehouse died today”

She was gone.

Like I knew her.

I wish I did.

I needed to do something.

Not drink, surprisingly.

But to ground myself.

To begin the process of mourning.

To reconnect with the world.

A shower.

To feel the rushing hot water cleanse my body, as I listened and sang to myself to my music.

My self care.

I walked into the washroom, got undressed, plugged in my ipod to the speaker, started the water, and pressed shuffle.

Then there it was.

Back to Black.

And my friend who didn’t know me, sang a sorrowful lullaby, as I contemplated my own existence.

And as I grieved over the loss of hers.

I had to be different.

I couldn’t say no, no no.

I began to weep.

As Amy and Elvis did a strange medley.

And slowly, instead of going to rehab, my tears began to dry on their own.

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