I wish I could grow my hair long
like those girls in the seventies
with their sexual liberation and coke and shrooms and benzos and ecstasy –
pills, hangovers, and pills again
clutching The Joy of Sex in one hand and
vodka in the other. Hitchhiking
with tanned limbs, high-cut swimsuits, frayed shorts and Birkenstocks.
Sun rays freckling burning Coppertone and baby oil. Rumours
on records and radio. Turned up high – static of what they had.
But I had too. And now I have lost. And so I choke
down benzos – not snort like those girls –
2, 4, 5, 6 milligrams.
Twice-a-day. Sometimes three. With brita-filtered water and a private psychiatrist.
No bare feet and free love and free sex.
Pale body, not tanned and toned and lithe and pretty like those girls from the seventies.
Only sagged breasts hang against fleshed rolls of stomach with purple and red
stretch marks in between thighs; crawling coils splinter into veins and vessels.
Vessels that become static
like the static on the radio those seventies girls turned up
high. Static of what I had.
Of what I lost.
I’m a qualified Archivist and hold a first degree in English and Creative Writing. Currently navigating my twenties by getting back into writing poetry, short prose, and everything else in between.
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