“Why Don’t You Write About [ ]?”
Because it’s all blurry or gone Because I never went to [ ] meetings or [ ] meetings Because I have trouble with the word recovery Because when [ ] died I had just bought from him a week ago and all I could think was damn, he had good shit Because now I know [ ] could’ve been me if I had made two or three different choices Because I get weird looks from bartenders when I order seltzer or Coke or tonic water Because I secretly can’t stand people who [ ] or [ ] Because the last time I almost slipped was when I was writing about it and I felt I needed [ ] to understand the writing Because I still kind of think that Because I stopped at 22 with white knuckles and jazz and cigarettes Because when the wind hits the back of my neck just right I still feel it Because I still feel [ ] and regret Because I stole from [ ] and [ ] and [ ] and [ ] and so many others Because I miss it Because when [ ] and [ ] got arrested I felt bad that I wasn’t there Because I caught it earlier than most Because I don’t even talk about it in therapy Because it’s starting to feel too distant too inaccessible Because I got behind the wheel after I drank ten [ ] and took [ ] and I’m still not sure if I intended to [ ] Because there are so many other stories like mine so many had it worse my story is small and short Because I kept that tiny bit of [ ] for too long after and when I found it years later I almost took it Because when people who haven’t felt it talk about it I get angry even though they have a right to talk about it but they don’t really know if they haven’t felt it themselves Because one time I got kicked out of a party for saying no thanks to [ ] and went home and cried Because every new doctor needs to know Because that time we all got [ ] and I came to with a stranger on top of me and [ ] got [ ] and I drove us home down the mountain and we never fucking talked about it Because I saw a girl dragged out of a crowd at a Neutral Milk Hotel concert her lips pale and eyes distant dilated and the panic on her friends’ faces still scares the shit out of me and I never figured out if she [ ] Because sometimes I fucking laugh about it Because I still have fond memories of [ ] and I’m not quite sure where that leaves me Because I’m quick to discourage any use of [ ] or [ ] or [ ] as medicine and I’m pretty sure that’s wrong Because in the two years I lived in [ ] there were eight [ ] but that was just students and not the rest of us Because I can feel the stares I get when I talk about it Because sometimes it sounds like bragging Because that person wasn’t me Because my biggest fear is that it was Because I’m still unsure if I can call myself an [ ] when it only lasted from [ ] to 22 Because I kept it to myself for so long that it feels like too much to tell Because I’m afraid you won’t believe me Because I can’t remember straight and don’t want to check the facts Because when I took too many [ ] and thought I was [ ] I was kind of glad Because I’m one bad night from [ ] and being right back where I was Because it was boring Because fuck you, it’s mine.
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Driving Home from McDonald’s Three Days After Christmas Eve
and I’m shoveling hot fries into my mouth. There’s not enough salt. They’re scalding my tongue; for what—I’m not enjoying them. My throat is dry. I’m not sure the Sprite in the cup holder will quell the thirst I’ve felt for days. I let go of the steering wheel to unwrap a cheeseburger, knowing the salt and sugar in the meat will only drive the thirst further into my body. My stomach, my kidneys, they’re begging for a drop of water. I can’t remember when I last drank something without fructose or aspartame or carbonation. That’s not right; I drink coffee every day. I’m driving aimlessly. Ketchup spills from the sides of the cheeseburger. I know I’m going home, but I can’t decide which way to go.
Three days ago, I did the math on how many of my pills it would take. Today, I held them in my hand. Now, I’m driving home from McDonald’s and the saltless fries are going cold and there’s ketchup dripping onto my shirt and I’m still thirsty in a way I’ve not been in a long time.
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RL Selden is a writer, educator, and coffee enthusiast. His nonfiction work confronts the realities of living under late capitalism. His writing can be found or is forthcoming in #Ranger Magazine, APROSEXIA Lit, and dadakuku. He lives, writes, and teaches in Wilmington, NC for now.
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image: Born in Catanzaro, Italy where he lives and works, Claudio Parentela is an illustrator, painter, digital painter, photographer, mail artist, cartoonist, collagist, textile artist, and freelance journalist. He has collaborated with many magazines of contemporary art, literary, and comics in Italy and in the world, on the paper and on the web. Check out his art on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/parentelac
Rejection Letters 