To think that you were born in the backseat of a car
to a woman who had no anesthesia, no painkillers,
and braced her feet against the seat in front of her so hard
her ankles got bruises as dark blue as the bottom of the ocean,
and you still popped out craving drugs. On your lowest days,
you couldn’t tell the difference between a handful of pills
and a paper carton full of Milk Duds. Letting go of the past
and making room for the future is like peeling off sunburnt skin
from the smooth brown backs of a woman’s shoulders,
revealing the fresh, freckled newness underneath.
Letting go of the past requires a willpower you don’t have.
James, when you started blacking out seven days a week,
your status changed from unemployed to employed,
because destroying yourself was a full-time job.
I still have the photographs of you gobbling down raw oysters
one by one, pearls and all, at the clinic as a replacement
when you couldn’t get the drugs. When I kissed you
hours later, your mouth was still wet from their juice.
The other patients admired your tolerance for cocaine,
but even your own parents started sending you sympathy cards
with the date of your own death written inside.
And James, when we touched each for the first time
beneath the covers of your hospital bed, I knew it wasn’t love:
you were just looking for another high
to replace the one that had already worn off.