In her third poetry collection, Ari Eastman takes us through a very personal journey of growing up, loss, love, and surviving it all. This book is a must read for anyone who has experienced tremendous grief.
I said, “You’re only 14 so if you get good at poker, you won’t need to go to college. If you get really good at this, you’ll always find ways to survive.”
One evening, you are going to wake up in a cold sweat of memory, and you are going to have no other choice but to bleed. You are going to have no other choice but to pick up the pen.
First, you’re drunk. Then you remember that today is just a ghost that’s haunting you. It happened, and yesterday’s ghost won’t let you forget.
When you’re in a manic episode, it’s delicious. And I’m not sure if that’s something I’m supposed to say. I should talk about the struggles of this disease. I should tell you it’s a dangerous cycle (it is) and to take medication (you should see a doctor). This is when I’m supposed to wish for a “normal” brain. This is when I tell you how hard it is.
I still remember telling my mother, the woman who thought her little girl was an angel, that I was a drug addict and needed to go to inpatient treatment. “I don’t want to get high anymore,” I told her, “but I can’t stop.”
Just for a while, stop looking behind you.
I don’t need your arms
to habitat my rescues
to save me from refuge.
I met you in pieces;
you did not save me,
and I did not ask
I mean, T. Swift has a point. Bandaids don’t fix bullet holes. And time, as forgiving as it can be, does not swoop in like a magical antidote and permanently smooth out the left over scab. If the mark was deep enough, the scab will scar. And the scar will stay.