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Jen Grimes Dec 2016
“I’ve been sober for two months now,”
I was proud of these words when I sent them your way
You seemed proud of me too.

Two months battling the Beast
Inside of me
Always craving, itching, howling
To be let out of it’s cage.

I resisted.
I defied the Beast for the people I love,
And for the people who cherish me.

“One day at a time,”
The councilors tell me,
And I learned, slowly, how to treat myself well.  

We spoke on the phone last night,
After I had finally gotten my med dose right.
“I’m single now; we broke up…”

The way you said it tugged at my heart
As if I was going to be your fresh start.
And I fell, knowing you would catch me.  

“I’m getting drunk now.”
Were the last words you said to
Me. The recovering addict.
As if my words seemed feasible
You cashed them in for something better.

If words had arms attached to them,
Yours would punch a grenade in my gut.
Jen Grimes Sep 2016
Mom said it's not a jungle gym,
It's not a jungle gym.
It's not a jungle gym.
It's not a jungle gym.

But it was a GIANT ELEPHANT!
And chains are for clanging
And metal is for banging
And roped off areas are for sneaking
Under

It’s not a jungle gym
It’s not a jungle gym
It’s not a jungle gym

I didn’t understand why mom wasn’t excited
She just stood next to me staring up at the Elephant

It’s not a jungle gym
I let go of her hand
It’s not a jungle gym
I ducked under the rope,
It's not a jungle gym
I almost didn’t need to duck

Then I touched the metal elephant,
To test if he was real.
Jen Grimes Sep 2016
The Dog


I found him, outside the basketball court
Sunday morning.
His golden coat seemed soft like
A Patagonia in dead winter, like
a blanket over your legs when the summer breeze hits.

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
He came up to me with curious eyes; like
A child in a candy store, like
Detectives, always curious, like
staring at the phone waiting for your mother to reply
Curious.

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His gold tail hiding between his legs, ears perked like
when the caffeine finally kicks in, like
recognizing your best friend in the hallway, like
the addition of red roses to a bouquet, like
her ******* when the water is cold

I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His fur was matted, his body emaciated like
The body of an anorexic, like
A child rotting from leukemia,
No longer soft, like a Patagonia.

So I covered him with a blanket,
His eyes fearful, not curious but wet
Like his nose hitting my arm, like
Carrying him in my arms, soft
Even in chilly November;
light as a feather.
Jen Grimes Aug 2016
I still don't know what I'm doing,
But I know how it starts.
Magic floats through my fingertips
The sun rises in my chest
Slow. Warm. Orange.
And I think of a better place
And I wish for a slower pace
And I dream of embodying grace
And I dream
And I think
And I wish
For days to drip by like honey
For nights to end bittersweet and glowing
For more time to savor the moments
The ones you know that count
I think that's what writing really is.
Jen Grimes Jul 2016
I know you said you wouldn't go
And I promised I felt nothing
But every step you took snapped a nerve in my brain
You left without a backward glance
Every molecule in my body was running out of water  
Out of oxygen
I relieve my lungs now
with cigarettes
Because the rush calms my head
But I'm just a flower you ripped from the ground
And you smiled, and you waved goodbye,
As all the flowers died.
Jen Grimes Jul 2016
Ice
He had the power
To send me spiralling
Back to white powder.
Or keep me steady
With the anchors of his words.
Either way,
I was done for.
Jen Grimes Jun 2016
Have you ever felt like you were drowning?
Maybe, you were sitting alone, in a cafeteria full of people
laughing, smiling, eating
But all you could feel were the eyes of judgement
Burning into your back

Maybe you were awake at four in the morning
Praying that peace would find you in the form of a dreamless sleep
So you wouldn't have to relive the memories behind your irises
The ones that make your hands tremble, and your knees weak, and your breathing come in spurts

I feel like I'm drowning.
As if someone cast an anchor overboard and somehow it snagged onto my heart,
Pulling me down to the bottom of the ocean
Because I can't even hear your name without feeling a piece of my chest splinter.

Does it hurt?
The way that you crack a smile when someone else laughs, so nobody will know you've been  spending too much time practicing that facade in front of a mirror
Or that you've been running to the liquor store four times every week because nothing else lulls you to sleep

Does anyone notice?
The way your hands tremble just slightly right before you enter a room full of people, because anxiety has overpowered your own mind.
Or the way your heart stammers when you bump into someone on the street, and it takes you back to when he held you down in the passenger seat, seeking pleasure from your pain.
Or when you run out of things to say because nobody reaches out to you first, you just go silent, hiding behind printed pages in novels where you wish your life resided.

Have you ever felt like you were drowning?
I do- every day.
But I've never set foot in the ocean.
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