Author’s Note: I still can’t roll my “r”s.
Ortega
we speak in like tongues of lives unmanageable, and tenant bubbles dubbed anonymous: 40 contacts in my phone with the same last name.
Sam
Off the beaten path, Park Ave to park benches: halfway houses, surrounded by white fences. Cashed wellness checks afforded by white privilege, a slap on slit wrists for all my capital offenses. On borrowed time, my shorthand clicks faster. Sex sells for six cents to slick bastards. Peddled sins pawn off to one-note stanzas. Pick a line, phone the next morning, I won’t answer. Samantha, my anthem, I remember every second: When we met, I was a wreck and regretful and hardly sober but so were you. Over Mario Kart and cigarettes, we exchanged sympathies. My first friend in recovery; company loves misery. Three months, Two relapses, and One fateful 4 AM FaceTime after, Our love died of unnatural causes. I mourned you, the morning you painted those hotel room sheets, reeking of cheap perfume and hard liquor. What’s sicker is I was too high to talk to the police. What a relief that I was staying at my parents’. Apparently, they cared more about my manic temperament than the temperature of your room and whether your blood might or might not clot. I felt my heart rate stop when the call dropped and the god damn pigs couldn’t pinpoint your location. What motivation had you in calling me if not to halt you? I don’t fault you or view you as a cancer for using me as a lifeline; but, you should know I can’t serve as your savior. Still unable to shake the guilt I feel so viscerally, It labels me, C R I M I N A L . I surrender to serenity, exhale my iniquities, and gently close my eyelids. Focus on my breathing, ‘cause I’m terrified of silence. My speed dial has one number fewer now. I still play Mario Kart. I no longer smoke cigarettes.