I wasn't even allowed to drink in January because my friends and I had declared it "dry January." I was bored and sadly sober one night when I saw that a literary journal I sometimes submit to had submissions open for their March issue. Free of charge, just send the editor an email.
I wrote in my new crooked, fragmented style - something I hadn't published on Prose, because it has to be previously unpublished. I laid out my childhood and my awful ex-boyfriend like they were being hung out to dry.
I couldn't have even summarized what I had written after the fact, I had submitted it close to midnight and am usually forgetful of what I write anyway. Something about trauma, etc. etc.
7:54 a.m yesterday: an email from the editor. 'It is our pleasure to inform you...'
Sipping coffee slowly, and then more quickly. This was my second submission to a publication outside of Prose since the year started.
Perhaps no one had submitted?
It feels good to be recognized, as mortified as I am that I laid my past bare, a midnight submission I had emailed for the hell of it. Now it will be spelled out to the world, trauma and my name together, separated by only a comma.
You never know until you try.
You’ll Ne’er Know until . . . perversion spreads its tentacles . . .
Vague but haunting Vision plagues me.
Rises fore me, as It deems,
All of me, hellbent, It seems.
To cede vulnerability,
Low profile I emulate.
Ne’er I’ll know the consequences
If I, shaken, hesitate.
Something horror-struck is out there
Just beyond the ken of sight.
I fear It will overtake me,
Wrapped in tentacles too tight.