I alone am the cause of this
drought, and hatred’s all that’s left
on tap so that’s what I’m drinking. I drink
and everything falls in my stomach, out of my
head to a place I can touch with my finger
A boy? Or a buoy
that eats through its chain, drifted out
to clubs and bars and reappeared, briefly,
to those who drown in seconds.
Misery has wrapped me up
like hands around my drink, and though this glass
is empty I’m still chewing on its ice.
Brothers? I’m sick of all my brothers,
my slivered sisters, who pack in here
and sweat until they’re small.
Knowing you means none of you
have any chance to matter, but here I am like something
you took pity on and fed. The neon lights
that make me think of quarantine are dimming,
but why? Why is everyone
wrapped in plastic but me? Tonight,
are for finding home or trying, for sleeping
on the toe-prints you left
kissed above my dash.
Thank you, thank you
for getting me
This is a reprint of work originally published in Gutter Eloquence Magazine.
Britt Luttrell is a 24-year-old male person from Austin, Texas. He leads wilderness hikes for preschoolers and fears that he will never resemble the talent of a toddler’s mind for story. Hold up, you put a bonnet on the elephant seal in your basement?! Really?! He writes anyway. His favorite words are about vulnerability, bad decisions, resurfacing. So is his favorite anything.