8:49 a.m.

Intakes of breath, free writing until my mind pops - stardust that falls lightly on her red sweater like snow fall. Quotes from the internet that inspire tattoos, a young girl’s fantasy in her childhood home. Perhaps we’re all trying to be known, a lifetime of experiences leading us to the watering hole.

Baileys that pours through my brain, rocks that diminish to sand grains. Irish bars that reflect inner chaos. I am bipolar, defying the odds. If we are merely spacedust, I am the asteroid. Am I defying or succumbing to earth’s gravitational pull?

I regret not being drunk as I write it down.

The written word arrests me. Their sirens transport me to the truth, blaring me into oblivion. I am their prisoner, a poet who grasps at anything to be relevant.

There is no “wow factor” in writing, unless it sucker punches you in the gut. Likewise, you can find me in a bar fight. Martinis that taste sour, literature with pages worn down. Rupi Kaur going live on Instagram makes me want to kiss the crowd.

I regret a lot, not least of all my use of this scattershot wretchedness I cringe at calling my best written testimony.