Replaying each dramatic tableau in slow motion as I fall to the pavement,

Ashphalt burning the roof of my mouth

Like hot chocolate on Christmas Day,

Cozied up next to the fire

As our heads fill with maudlin static

Sickeningly saccharine.

Mentally, I’m asleep on the couch

While my parents smoke cigarettes and play poker in the other room—

Whispers that stink of whiskey,

Laughter that bubbles over the radio’s white noise

And wishes of many more happy new years,

A lifetime of cheer

Confined to dozens of cookie cutter cottages.

Up north, my father is the captain of our sinking ship,

Overturned in the shallow end

Just to realize his foot was the anchor

And with the other one in the grave,

Making peace with our buoyancy

Was the only way to ever get back to solid ground.

And on the days I cannot keep myself from going under,

Swimming in circles until I reach the surface belly-up,

I revisit my old neighborhood,

Reliving my greatest joys before my despair got its hooks in,

And left me thrashing wildly for closure—

If it was to be the blue of the sea

Or the green of the hills—

Or off in this gray November sky,

Shedding my vibrant feathers

For this colorless fever dream.

Just to wake up still on the couch,

In the same spot as the night before.