To him, food is not medicine. Medicine involves Budlight, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a multipack of vitamins you get off the counter at the corner store.
He says those vitamins keep him healthy. I’m sure they are simply a rainbow of fancy colors and as void of anything helpful as the bottle is.
It is his illusion.
Thanksgiving dinner starts with an appetizer of Crown and Coke. The main course is that 24 pack he lugged in. By the time football starts you’ll be able to smell him before you see him. Hear him from across the house.
Tell me why I can’t find the courage to pick up the phone between holidays but the moment I smell him I wish I was near him more.
Tell me why I secretly enjoy the way alcohol pours from his pores. The sourness and the sweat.
Tell me why the smell of drunk is synonymous with Dad.
Tell me why I want to smell drunk all the time but can’t dial his number.
Tell me why I know those vitamins are placebo. But whenever I see them I buy them and I take them anyway.
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Become A Deadly Weapon Now
The gypsy found the chasm and down she went. Feeling like Alice on a heavier day. Bright lights and sparks. Boots and tamberines.
She fell so hard. Carrying all those things that she carried. The things we all carry. The jingle and the jangle and the glitter that weighs like mountains. The power in a voice and how it makes you a God.
How sometimes they called you a Queen but then they forget and the glitter fades.
The bottom wasn’t as dank as she worried. There was no dormouse or white rabbit. Just the sputtering of white dove wings.
Illusions. All illusions and nowhere to run.
A laced hand placed against a mirror. A beat of a drum. The hum of falling to the other side. And in the peripheral the outstretched smirk of a Cheshire cat. Larger than the sun.