I’m fine. The fall hurt. Standing hurts less.
“Walk in a straight line,” said the cop, all stern –
So I lay down. Flat. Like, horizontal grace.
“Technically straight,” I thought. You live, you learn.
Sobriety’s a game I lose…with face.
I quit the vodka, now coffee takes the stage –
With milk, fake syrup, judgment on the side.
It scolds me gently while I disengage
From all the reckless ways I used to hide.
No more pretending chaos was a plan,
No glamor in the bruises or the blame.
I sit with pain now – let it take my hand,
And name it. Healing’s slower but less lame.
I stand-ish tall. I caffeinate. I try.
But if I can’t, I’ll lie down. At least I’m dry.
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