Artwork: Run Down, Jordan Matthews
Acrylic paint on canvas, 25 x 21 in., 2021

By D.H.

I woke up this morning
And rolled over to grab
My worn-down bong and lighter 
To start my day off right.

My mom barged in to
Give me a hypocritical spiel 
With vodka on her breath
As if her addiction isn’t visible.

She’s oblivious to my pain, 
Along with everyone else.
It’s as if my whole life hasn’t led 
To why I now crave a high.

It’s the Jack Daniels and 
Her stupid glazed-over eyes. 
And it’s her teal Yeti cup for 
On the go.

It’s my father who left me with
Passed out women at seven
And took me to smoky hotel rooms 
That I now know were filled with drugs.

I reached out to her because I always 
felt like I was being held underwater; 
Trapped and unable to breathe.
But she couldn’t see it, so it didn’t exist.

I was truly drowning and felt 
I had nothing left to lose, 
Because no one cared enough 
To pull me out of the water.

One day, I had had enough, so 
I picked up my cracked iPhone 
And typed a message to the 
Sketchy dealer down the street.

I poked holes in an empty Coke can
And as the burning match transformed the 
Green leaves to dark ash,
Smoke filled my lungs.

I muffled my cough with
My black hoodie sleeve,
And despite the burn in my chest, 
I could finally breathe again.