Do Not Write Confessional Poems About Anything

My uncle called me. He couldn’t finish my first chapbook. It was too vulgar. My aunt whispered to me through my smart phone’s speaker that some things just weren’t meant to be written about.

She then asked me if I‘d been drinking.

I told her “only enough to make me vomit” even though I hadn’t touched alcohol in over a month.

One of my mom’s ALNON sponsors was in rehab. She was in her late fifties. She had two kids, a dog, a cat, and a wife. She had been skimming money from work to buy pain pills from the people they’d been prescribed too.

One of the author’s whose books I had just put together had sent me a message a few days before saying he’d fallen off the wagon. He was going into rehab. All progress on his work would have to be stopped till his release.

When my aunt hung up after a hurried promise of calling me soon, I went to my friend’s dorm room, sat on her bed and twisted open a Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade. I wrote a poem on my phone’s note app about what it felt like to vomit alcohol. I erased it when I could see the bottom of the bottle.

Part of an essay from one of my CRWR classes. Enjoy!

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