Medicated and Motivated
I don’t know if I’m good. The writing I produce, a quiet look into the heavily medicated mind: when you’re addicted to Xanax, the chalkboard welcomes nails screeching down it.
Likewise, I want to stir the internal demons, lean over the pottery wheel and bring them home to mom.
Prose was a gateway. I am a writer, addicted to feelings. My dad asked me, when are you done with a poem? I said: when it kicks me in the stomach. Hard.
I thought recently: what can I contribute to the writing world? I was applying to a writers conference. As whiskey sloshed onto my keyboard, I pulled together some pieces I’ve written for Prose. I pressed submit.
I guess all I can keep doing is keep going. But for me? Prose raised the curtains, turned my imagination into words, into typing, into my story.
White girl, wino woes. That’s what I’m doing here.
But maybe that’s my story, and maybe that’s my medicine.