Brooklyn Baby: An excerpt from Porridge: A Memoir

Brooklyn Baby

I cried yesterday when I got home.

I felt my insides shake and my spine curl inwards,

Like my body was seeking a warm hug from something,

Anything,

Even itself.

I sat in bed and closed my eyes then let the music play with them closed,

Sometimes, if I let it consume me I can almost feel the space between my ears

Where the sound bounces.

It’s a hollow, calm place.

I knit to give my hands purpose,

Watch the scarf trail along the floor

I feel more important with every inch.

Row by row.

I knit to tie my soul to something with legacy.

Purpose.

My bones are weak and tired.

My marks come back low

And I feel lower,

No money in my pocket to compensate for my stupidity,

Just a burning hole in my chest

That feels cold when I cry.

I miss all that I’ve let go when the pain comes.

Daddy.

Magnolia.

My hair.

My right choices feel so wrong,

So dirty,

Simply because they were made by me.

I don’t know who leaf is:

A pen name to hide personal problems.

I can sleep through the day and it is never enough,

Crippled, I am bound to my bed,

Until the next day where I rise to fill my pocket with pointless,

Green bills that vanish from existence by the end of the month,

And I am left with no evidence of my actions or my hard work.

I cradle my own bones to fill the hollow place in my heart.

I am so cold.

So cold and alone.

I’m just a smile, some bad jokes, and too many problems.

I am her without choice,

We are them without choice.

How many pills would I have to take for it all to go away.

I am too cowardly to face the world,

Too cowardly to kill myself.

Cropped hair left me useless,

Atleast then I was a useful object.

Even sex with the wrong people gave me purpose;

I think of all the meals I want to miss,

The many years I wish to sleep.

I play Lana Del Rey on repeat

And melt into that place,

That space,

Between my ears,

Where I’m not dead,

Not alive.

But asleep.