"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.

I wish you weren’t kind to me
You laid down in the garden
Right by the apple tree where our cat used to sleep
Your eyes were alight with a sort of bliss
Your body trembling with hunger

You told me that something was there
Ambrosia seeping into the soil
“Please, just a few more minutes”
“I can find it, I swear”

The rain poured onto you
Soaking your already muddy socks
I told you to come inside
I told you that there was nothing there
“I can see it,” you insisted
“You just need to look”

It was getting dark
I pulled and tugged on your ragged clothes
But still, you were kind to me

I wish you would yell
Scream, kick or cry
But you’re so gentle with me
You apologize and tell me I’m a good brother

I can’t do this
I can’t let you go
Please, give me a reason to push you away
But you just hand me your saccharine smile
And syrup-soaked regret
Even as your eyes have become hollow

I remember my first time meeting you. You had long red hair and kind eyes, the kind I could get lost in. And, God, I couldn’t stop smiling. You said your name was Mary. Soft freckled face and withered hands. I was so curious, filled with naive wonder. You told me you loved oranges, and I think I started to love them almost as much as I love you. But then things started to change. Burning passion was now a fake plastic sorta love. Y’know I thought I could be different. I thought If i just limited myself and controlled it I’d be okay. Now look at me. It’s starting to hit me that I never really had any control. No. It wasn’t until I was scraping blood off my fingernails that I realized I couldn’t stop, but by then it was too late. I started doing things I never thought myself capable of, vile, monstrous acts. I fell farther… and farther… And then I was all alone, just a pile of shaky limbs and crooked joints. I’ve done a lot of bad things. I am, by no means, a good person. But, Mary, my dear, I promise I’m not a monster.

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.

"The Box"
by E.J. Crowe

Here in the dark,
I feel safe
from a crude, despicable world.

I shroud myself in darkness
and self-loathing,
my mind races like euphoria
seeping through the fragile cracks
of my forever-decaying mind.

I sit in the woods
and ponder in deep-rooted thought.
Society already discarded me—
labeled me roadkill,
useless,
a loser.

They might as well have handed me
a loaded gun,
a noose,
a heavy bottle of Percs and Oxys,
forever deluding my sense
of social connection.

I chose to stay away from the humans.
This is peace—
among famine, war,
and hateful people
with fake smiles
and hollow souls.

I only feel whole
laying in the woods,
my only company:
a half-empty 40
and a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Smoke.
Think.
Smoke.
Drink.
Smoke.
Stop.

My soul cannot forgive this world.
It's forever lost
and ******.

I choose to dance in silence
with the voices in my head,
confronting my own demons.

Through the box,
I see the truth.
That’s peace.

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

"Welcome, Black Sheep"
by E.J. Crowe

To the humans that drift in between—
the ones life cast aside, marked as trash.
Why?
Because you're an addict: *****, pills, ****, cigarettes.
All man-made, not God-given.
The Lord sees us in His image—
until we sin.
Good equals bad.
Bad equals chaos.
One cannot thrive without the other.
World peace?
A pipe dream, forged by hopeless humans
for a false sense of security.
A marvel.
A utopia born from delusion.

To the addict who didn’t make it out—
I'm sorry.
Your funeral was beautiful.
You looked majestic. Clean.
A perfect family model now, I guess.
But why the fake suit?
Why the empty words?
No one wants to accept the guilt
of making you a black sheep.
A martyr.

But I saw you.
I saw the silent cries
through needle-laced veins,
your glass mask,
your bloodied eyes.
You were the truth—unfiltered.
At least you had the ***** to be you.

Through the rabbit hole—
how deep does it sway?
Which pill do you take?
Red or blue?
Reality or comfort?
Blurred contrasts of fake existence.

“Drugs are bad,” they scream
from their ivory towers,
judging God’s creation
through man’s corruption.

I was an addict.
I loved to pop pills.
I loved throwing up blood
and waking up in unfamiliar towns,
in strange houses,
sweating,
smelling like shame and stale cigarettes.

Wash that truth down
with your cold beer.
I loved to party.
And addiction loved me back, right?

Did it love the lost souls too?
That’s a loaded question—
barreled with flaws and hollow points.
A hard truth,
etched in scars and injection marks.

Welcome to the family,
fellow black sheep.

Only Been an Hour"

The fragile cracks of my mind,
decapitated, decayed—
like a festering wound,
a portal to the unknown.

My clouded thoughts
once wore a hollow mask—
a smile painted in panic,
a joke to cloak the hurt.

“Hi, how are you?”
I ask, out of habit,
too scared to leave the comfort
of my hollow home.

A hermit,
lost in the midst of madness,
questioning everything:
Am I normal?
Am I okay?
I must be—
I'm still alive, still pulsing...
But it all feels like a deep ruse
to hide my trauma.

Am I me?
Or am I plastic?

A lone wolf taught to bottle his pain—
because “that’s just how men are raised,” right?

The pressure builds,
and I can’t take it.
One drink—
and my emotions bleed
through the cracks in my façade.
Another drink—
and another...

Now I’ve got my tiger stripes,
I’ve got my confidence.
But I’m numb.
No joy. No fear.
Just silence.

Is this real?

Maybe a line.
Some blow.
A pill.
Blackout.

I wake in a puddle of *****—
shirtless, sweating, shaking—
a corpse with a pulse.

Is this me?

I hear muffled voices
as I come to in a hospital bed.
No questions asked,
just dismissal.
Back home.

Back to silence.

I cry myself to sleep
as the clock ticks,
pounding like a hammer
in my skull.

It’s only been an hour.