"Sugar It Is"
By E.J Crowe

I sit there at my dinner table
under the flickering bulb of the lamp.
My eyes—heavy.
My heart—corrosive.

I grab my coffee,
staring at my gruesome reflection
in the cup.

I don’t like what I see.
A man who's given up.
A man who used to be a lion...
but now resembles a lamb.

I throw my cup—
BOOM. CRASH.
Glass echoes in my skull
like a banshee's scream,
lingering,
filling my soul with acid and rot,
venom and hate.

I fall to the floor,
tearing up.
“I—
AM—
BETTER!!”

The light flickers out.
Dead.
Casting elongated shadows
across the wall.

I laugh.
I reflect.
I rejoice.

My life is far from perfect.
Since I was a young man—
filled with **** and fury—
I was labeled damaged goods.

A young man ****** at the world.
****** at school.
****** at my parents.
My foster home.
My life.

But no one takes credit
for the very monster they created.
Guilt shifting
like a sideshow
on a busted projector—
society projecting
its insecurities onto me.

But I smile.

I pick up the shattered glass.
Too numb to feel.
A piece slices my hand—
I stare at the bright red
bleeding in the dark kitchen,
reminding me—
I’m only human.

I grab another cup of coffee.
And instead of sugar...
I put in crushed Percs.
…I mean Oxys.
…I mean Adderall.
…I mean—
sugar.

I’m not that beast anymore.

I’m me.
Broken.
Beautifully flawed.
A human.

Sugar it is.

Photograph
By E.J. Crowe

There’s a photograph in my skull—
not framed,
not real,
just scorched behind my eyes.

It shows me grinning,
sunlight behind me like a halo made of gasoline,
ready to ignite.

No weight in my stare.
No rot in my gut.
No ghosts in the corners.

A lie.
A pretty corpse of a moment
that never lived.

I rewrite it—
over and over—
like a ****** tracing veins,
searching for peace
in a place
that never existed.

But truth?
Truth is a blade
that doesn’t ask permission.

And when I wake—
I’m soaked in cold sweat,
jaw clenched so tight
my molars scream.

Sometimes I grind until my gums bleed,
coughing up iron
like my lungs forgot how to breathe
anything
but memory.

The past doesn’t haunt.
It infests.

It slithers inside me like black mold—
whispers behind drywall,
scratches under the floorboards
of my skull.

The pills?
Still call like old lovers.

The bottle?
Still sings lullabies
in a key
only I remember.

My thoughts come like stampedes—
hoofbeats in my ribcage,
crushing
everything
soft.

Sometimes I swear
my heart wants out—
wants to claw through bone
and hurl itself
into silence.

I’m a good dad.
I hold bedtime stories
with trembling hands.

I’m a good husband.
I kiss her forehead
even when I feel like a ghost
in my own bed.

So why does it still crawl?
Why does it still eat me?

The photo shifts again—
eyes go dead.
Smile melts into a snarl.

The background rots—
as if acid chewed through the film
and left nothing
but static and flies.

I smell bleach,
blood,
formaldehyde.

My tongue tastes copper
and regret.
The air grows thick—
with the stench of old hospitals
and failure.

My wife stirs.

I freeze.
I can’t let her see this version of me—
the one made of sand
and gasoline.

I stagger into the bathroom,
hands shaking
like addicts at sunrise.

I stare into the mirror—
but the thing looking back
isn’t me.

It grins.
It knows.
It’s waiting.

SMASH.

Glass explodes like a scream.
Shards dance through the air—
one kisses my cheek,
but I don’t flinch.

Can’t.

I’m too numb to bleed properly.
Too lost to be found.

The cut runs red,
but I’m already hollow.
Already fading.

Faith?
A joke with ****** punchlines.

Hope?
An echo
in a burned-down cathedral.

All that’s left
is me—
a leaking cracked faucet
in a basement
the world
forgot.

A Marionette In The Dark
By: E.J. Crowe

I drip puke and spit blood.
Bags under my eyes—
heavy with contemplation,
under the toxic spell of drugs.

The alluring call…
the pills whisper to me from behind the walls:
“Come home.
You belong to me.”

I stumble to my closet, slow—
covered in glistening sweat and dried *****.
I muster the strength to find my pills—
my beautiful percs,
so pretty,
so good—
a potion to forget
the awful, decaying wound
of this festering world.

I SEE THE LIGHT.

I trip—
fall
into the darkest corner of my room.
Huddled,
knelt,
dumping out my faded RX bottle.
Counting them.
Smelling them.

The demons finally have their hold.

I look around—
my musty, dry room,
a sliver of light peeking
through a busted makeshift curtain.
Dust particles dance
in the sunray like Ashes

I haven’t left the house in a week.
Haven’t showered.
Haven’t changed.
The floor’s a graveyard—
scattered crushed pills,
broken beer cans,
whiskey bottles,
dried blood.

What have I become?

The addiction became possessive—
controlling.
I was its marionette.
It weaved the strings of my bane existence.

Hopeless.
Lost.
Beautifully scared.

I hear the faint laughs
of my friends walking by the house.

***** them.
They don’t care.
My family doesn’t care.

****,
my dad gave me the pills.

Only the pills love me.

My beautiful white powder.

I use my knife to crush them.
Sweating heavy,
smelling like a living zombie.
As I drift to sleep,
my only company
is the warm embrace of my
euphoric state,
and dilated pupils.

God…

when can I be normal?

“Defiance and Dust”
By E.J Crowe

I met you once—
just a passing hello,
like two ghosts brushing shoulders
in a world too loud to notice.

But I noticed.
God, I noticed.

Your name carved itself into
some hollow part of me
that craved
the strange,
the sharp,
the sacred.

You—
eyebrows shaved into defiance,
a lip ring like a dagger’s whisper,
a necklace of spikes—
armor or love letter to pain.

You freeze hair.
You collect teeth.
You wade through dust-covered hallways
where time forgot to breathe.

And you call that beauty.
And now?
So do I.

We don’t speak much.
A like here,
a comment there—
little pulses of proof
that you still walk this digital earth,
that maybe you see me too.

But still—
I love you quietly,
like moths love flame—
a slow-burning ache
I never swat away.

I trace the edges of your silence—
a secret tattoo inked beneath my skin—
something no one else can see,
but burns all the same.

You move like a shadow’s echo,
fading in and out
of my fractured daylight.

And I am tethered—
to the ghost of your defiance,
to the soft collision of your madness and grace.

Sometimes I want to rip
my beating heart
out of my own chest—

hand it to you—
blood warm, pulsing—

watch my ribs collapse to dust—
ashes falling like mournful snow.

You’d hold me then, horrified—
but with that devilish smile
only you could wear.

Sometimes I wonder if you even know
how much you haunt me—

not as a curse,
but as a fragile, flickering light
I dare not reach for.

Your playlist bleeds.
Your smile doesn’t beg
to be understood.

Your hobbies flirt with madness—
and yet somehow—
you are the sanest piece of art
I’ve ever seen.

A walking gallery of grief and grace—
macabre in the most delicate ways.

You don’t need saving.
You never did.

But if you ever look my way—
really look—

just know—

I’m still here.

In awe.
In shadow.
In love
from afar.

"At Least I Have My Voices"
by E.J. Crowe

Why so isolated?
Why the **** am I so alone?
Why the **** does everyone turn—
or betray—
******* zealots and fakes,
wolves in sheep’s clothing,
friends with fake love,
fake life,
fake smiles—
I see the cracks bleeding through your mask.

Your words speak kindness,
but your heart drips venom.
Why are you like this?

People hate me.
For what?
Because I speak truth?
Because I’m unfiltered?
Because I’m real?

Well, *******.
My family, my friends, my fake ******* support group.
The ones who force laughs at dumb jokes
then whisper prayers for my downfall.

I see your plans—
like scripture on stained glass.
I see the blade behind your back.
You want me to fall,
to relapse,
to burn.

Empty pill bottles whisper to me—
“Come home.”
They were my only peace,
my only silence,
my only truth.

I scream for help
from a glass fortress—
bare soul,
bleeding mind.
But somehow,
you make it about you.

Am I not human?
Do I not deserve love
that doesn't come with a leash?

Unconditional love is extinct—
a fossil of something real.
Man, I miss real…
Real conversation.
Real connection.
Real peace.

My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep pills in the house.
My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep ***** in the house.
****.

My mirror is crying.
...Wait.
That’s me.
At least—
what’s left of me.

I don’t even recognize my own cold eyes
as I sit
crying on the bathroom floor,
shower running so my wife doesn’t hear,
hugging myself,
screaming into my palms,
trying to smother the voices—

SHUT THE **** UP.

But they don’t.
They never do.
They remind me
what a lost cause I am.

And sometimes,
sometimes I wonder
if even my kids love me conditionally.
(God, that’s disgusting to think...)

But it’s in my head—
and that’s the worst place to be.
Even my therapist quit on me.
No text. No warning. Just—gone.

Truly alone.

...

At least I have my voices.

Through Pain I'm Real (extended)
by E.J. Crowe

I awoke
smothered in a swollen pile of percs and blood.
Dizzy.
Shaking.
Guilt splitting my head like a rusted axe.

I tell myself I’ll be fine.
Carving a life out of empty 40s and pills.
Why do I do it?
To cope?
To make this fragile experience worth it?

We call it fun—
getting depressed,
heart shattered and wrecked.
Looking into the void,
not knowing it stares back.

The siren’s call of Pandora’s box...

Sniff pills.
Drink.
Clear my head.
Get on my skateboard.
Slurred words.
Stumbling.
Sweating.
Crashing.

Only knowing it’s real
when I bottom out—
sprawled in the street,
bleeding and scared.

Only then
do I know this is my reality.
The demons and voices
silenced forcefully
by heavy doses of narcotics
and Newport 100s.

And I can’t help but smile—
my dissociated state
finally grounding me
back to something.

Through pain,
I’m real.

Finally I Can Sleep
By E.J Crowe

Groggy as I come to—
Vision blurred—
Surrounded by a puddle of puke,
Cigarette ash and Budweiser perfume the air like rot in my lungs.

I'm half-naked,
Head jackhammering,
Tooth gone—
Who the **** am I?
Where the **** am I?

Next to me,
A dark-haired woman lies still—
Dried ***** mats her curls like glue from last night’s regret.
I glance around—
Subway station.
Concrete.
Filth.
Stale **** thick like ghosts in the air.

Then—
A loud noise—

"******* STOP!! MY HEAD!!"

The train.
It roars through my skull,
Splitting me open,
Stimming, shaking, escaping,
Reality starts to unravel—
So I dig in my pocket,
Fingers fumbling for salvation.

A worn, unmarked bottle—
Pop one…
Maybe I’ll forget again.
Another…
Maybe I’ll feel better.
Another…
Maybe I’ll O.D.

She gasps awake,
But she’s not really here—
Half-blind, incoherent,
I lift her—***** and all—over my shoulders,
Her hair stings my nose but I don’t flinch.
I should be used to this.
This is my life.

On the train again,
Noise like God screaming,
I collapse into a seat.
Light a smoke.
Nod off.
The world moves.
I recognize the stops—
My town.
My home.
A sliver of hope beneath this decay.

We stumble to my front door.
Dad opens it.
I whisper—

"Help her. She needs to sober up."

Bloodshot eyes.
Cold sweats.
Puke-stiff hair.

He looks at me like death just spoke and murmurs—

"What friend?"

I look beside me.

Nothing.
No one.

She never existed.
I made her.
Built her in my mind so I wouldn’t have to shoot up alone.
So I could pretend I wasn’t this far gone.

He punches me in the face—
And for the first time in days,
Weeks,
Years…

Finally… I can sleep.