Not Study Hall Anymore

You think you are doing your child-self a service,

Staying jaded and hurt,

As if eight-year-old you always dreamed

Of nodding off in the park

At ten a.m. on a Saturday.

.

I know you think you are honoring his pain,

Because I tried to honor the little girl in me

With champagne in the morning

And six beers every night

For a very long time,

Before anyone told me I was allowed

To find joy.

.

I’ll hold your dirty palm

And my breath.

.

Pretend we are in high school again

While I tell you

How to shake death’s pervasive cling.

.

How to unstick it—

The burr in your sock,

The hitch in your breath.

.

I found the joy that cleaved death

From my body

By chasing it.

.

The way you chase down streets

At 3 a.m., searching for someone,

Anyone, to help you

Get your fix.

.

Change the fix.

You’ve got your solution.

.

I traded frantic texts for drinks

For desperate journal entries dotted with expletives,

While I grappled with the idea

That joy was a holy pursuit.

.

I decided someday—

Someday—

I would be happy.

.

I asked myself what a happy person would do,

Copied her actions,

And pretended they were mine.

.

I learned I was the heroine of my story.

I hope you can be more

Than the heroin

In yours.

.

I tried, and I failed, and I tried.

.

I drove headlong through snowstorms

To reach sunrises

That never came.

Mourned the grey skies

Then walked into coffee shops

To find someone had paid for my drink.

.

I found the wins

Entwined with the

Pain and the losses.

.

I felt death shrink

When I saw how much love

I could feel.

.

I gave myself permission

To find joy.

.

I wish—

God, I wish—

You’d come visit me here.

.

Wish you’d grant yourself the same allowance.

(I’d spot you the twenty)

Because I can’t climb back

Into the depths

Of the world

You are in.

.

And I miss you

With an ache

All my joy cannot eclipse.