Dope Sick

Kiki, when you get the flu, do you just deal with it, or is your solution a bag of junk?

Her restless legs were sheeted in sweat
desperate for relief
kicking dirty walls to the point
that she'd bruises to show for it
She was perspiring buckets
that were surely seeping into the 2-inch foam pad
she bought months ago
inevitably staining it forever
to remind her that she was
at one point
Dopesick

"I just deal with it…I guess..."

But a bowl of chicken soup
had no capacity to comfort her
and nothing she could buy at Duane Reade
would stop her clammy body from shaking
She NEEDED heroin

or Suboxone
Klonipin and Xanax or weed
the ONLY solution was a drug
and all she had was a bottle
of watered down Georgi
that made her gag every time
she got a whiff of it

You know, I know where you're coming from. I used to have a habit, I've been dopesick before…but you're too smart, Kiki, too beautiful to be doing dope, Kiki. Come on…this is for the better. I can't give you a bag on credit, I just can't. If you were a regular customer, then maybe, but..you see…I made a pact with Angel and I just can't…….I'll call you back later if my guilty conscience gets the best of me.

He spoke like he was doing her college-girl self a favor
by keeping her sick and
stuck to her mattress
unable to move
aside from the few feet she'd crawl
every ten or twenty
to shit or vomit water
she wanted to scream at him

with every ounce of diminishing strength in her body:

BULLLLSSHIIIITTTT YOU CLEARLY DON'T GIVE A FUCK STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU THINK IM TOO GOOD FOR THIS SHIT YOU’RE A WORTHLESS DOPE-DEALING-DOMINICAN IN THE PROJECTS WHO THINKS YOU'RE HOT JUST CAUSE YOUR PHONE WON'T STOP RINGING AND THOUGH LAST WEEK YOU WERE ALL BUDDY BUDDY WITH ME NOW YOU CANT GET ME WELL WITH A SINGLE BAG THAT YOURE GETTING AT LESS THAN 5 BUCKS A POP?! FUCK YOU YOU DON'T GIVE A FUCK HOW DARE YOU PEP TALK ME
YOU OLD MOTHERFUCKER.

but she didn't
she said goodbye
and cried
It didn't matter that he was right
because he wasn't gonna help her
just like Angel and Dani and Jack and Lance and Mitch weren't gonna
and she couldn't believe that she'd reached a point
where a smack-pusher
was teaching her a lesson

All she wanted was someone
to hold her
to take her writhing calves in their hands
and knead them for a little
a nurse to sponge her fevered, wet body

withering away before her own eyes
someone to say that things were gonna be okay
that they loved her, and
that she was special and important
and not the worthless junkie
she thought she'd become
but she knew that she couldn't expect that
of anyone else
if she couldn't do it for herself

That Saturday night
when her resources ran dry
she swore she'd kick
because those 24 hours
were among the worst of her life
and it was the first time
ever
that she felt like dying

The First Time

Hollywood said that heroin was cool

it was for people without inhibition

artists with a part-time career in thievery

who led exciting lives

and fucked hot, crazy chicks

with bony backs and cute tits

and my life had always been boring

so from a young age

I wanted to try it

I saw the shit the first time

on an early-morning in December

in the hands of a 31-year-old man

who apparently knew he was gonna fuck me that night

but I just wanted his drugs

so I went home with him

and I remember lying backside on his bed

unable to put my finger on

the kind of euphoria I was feeling

it was so strong that this stranger, shooting up bedside

seemed like a savior

sheltering me from the cold of a New York December

and numbing my own condescending self

that never ceased to insult or bicker

till the second I was touched

by the transcendent relaxation

characteristic of the opiate-derivative

Diamorphine

ultimately, it's a semi-synthetic substance

which could've fooled me

since it felt so fucking

real

and right

and perfect

even though I woke up the next morning

nauseous and sweaty

and at noon, while I was walking down St. Marks

I puked my guts out on the sidewalk

and I felt really shitty about myself

because he didn't take down my number

but even after all that

I wouldn't have changed that perfect moment

in his room

for anything

Poem to my Laptop

I’m realizing now how incredibly much I need you

your dirty screen and sticky white keys

and though I’m usually never sorry

I’m regretting every action

that lead up to your being robbed of me

because now I’m handicapped
accessless
anxious and restless

unable to stop myself from wondering where you are

how you were moved from my possession to another’s

in exchange for what

and for who



I’d say whoever has you doesn’t need you as much as I do

for pen and paper is no match to a shiny new computer

for any student

or self-proclaimed writer

But really,

we’re all just humble humans in a modern age

and now that you’re gone

I don’t have Facebook to distract me

from how empty my apartment is at night

and I can’t watch porn 

or look for jobs on craigslist

even if I wanted to


I know you’re just a thing

a mere blessing of technology formerly in my possession
but you have to understand
checking e-mail has never been such an ordeal for me

and though I’m sure I’ll learn

a few really important lessons

(Be Weary of those you let into your home Be Careful who your friends are)

from the sequence of events

or rather, the number of stupid decisions I made

to cause your absence, but

FOR GOD SAKE I MISS YOU

Cleaning Day

She cleans herself up nice
and though she's barely twenty
she amply entertains beyond her years
over coffee and under sheets
but never in her own home

for no sane person could excuse
the piles of shit-stained clothing
creeping along nicotine-yellow walls
littered on a floor
so layered with dirt
the soles of her feet are always black

or her once-beautiful balcony overlooking the willow trees
uninhabitable now
with weeks-old garbage and
the sunbaked smell of rot

or the dirty dishes
caked with old cooking
overwhelming the sink, tempting the flies
who've made a home with her
in her sweaty apartment in the alphabets

the flies
those six-legged scavengers
are the only ones who'd accept her
and she desperately wants to be loved
so she lets them whirr in her company
though she hates the sound of buzzing
and how they nip her ankles while she sleeps

the years pass and the girl grows older
not much has changed
but her youth is gone and her charm is fading
ages ago, with the best of intentions
she'd bought a broom and dustpan
but her studio stayed the same
and the flies remained

till the day came
when she died sleeping
and her winged companions picked
the plastic garbage bags,
the dishes, her clothes
and her bones

clean

Junk Food

The first thing the girl could remember about her parents is how, one night a few years ago, though her brother and she were kneeling, tears bucketing down their kindergarten cheeks, they would not stop fighting. The mother had whacked the father with the hook end of a wire clothes hanger, and so the father's lip was bleeding and he kept on going HIT ME BABY HIT ME BABY COME ON HIT ME. The mother was terribly scared of the father, so she called the police, and the cops came even though the only act of domestic abuse was on her own behalf. When the authorities got there, there wasn't much they could do but sit the misbehaving parents down at the kitchen table and attempt to mediate a bad marriage, since neither party wanted to deal with the bullshit that came along with pressing charges. The man cop took the father downstairs, the woman cop stayed with the mother at the kitchen table. The two children peered through the kitchen door.
"He's going to stay somewhere else tonight. I'm sure, once he cools down, everything will be fine. He's being very understanding, you know." The woman cop saw the kids and their tear stained cheeks, an older brown-haired girl with scarce teeth and a younger boy with cute curls of blonde hair. "You should probably take your kids out to dinner. Something greasy."
In the back seat of the car the little boy stayed quiet. Through oversized glasses, he looked out the window of the Subaru Outback, staring down the desolate, post-8-o'clock streets of a well-to-do Suburban Virginia. The girl asked the mother questions like, "Mom…are you okay?? Did Dad hit you?? Why was his lip like that? Why did the cops have to come? What happened?"
The mother answered the girl's questions like she always did when it came to personal matters she was ashamed of.
"It's none of your business, dear. Dad won't be home tonight, be quiet, everything's fine."
Though she ate nothing, the mother watched, satisfied, as her children's hands, greased over by calamari, brought big-bunned burgers to their tiny mouths, pleased she'd blessed them with a gift her husband, a healthy surgeon, never would have. The girl was the only one that talked, blabbing about figure skating and piano lessons and the kids at school, all things that seemed trivial and unimportant in the aftermath of a domestic crisis. She got chocolate cake for desert. The boy ordered a sundae.
Upon entering the driveway of the white two-story house, the cops were gone and the kids were put to bed. The mother stopped by the kitchen for a bottle, as she always had, and consumed its contents on her side of the bed with the company of a blaring TV screen, to wake up early, alone, and with a self-imposed obligation to hide the bottle (or two) of wine under the bathroom sink. The nanny would come up to the childrens' bedrooms, get them ready for school and make them breakfast, while the mother would drink coffee with milk before work, and that evening the father would come home late for dinner, and everyone would sit around the kitchen table together, not-speaking, and from that point on everything would go about as usual.

The Game

I see your brown lace-ups everywhere
on shoe racks, in classrooms
tapping tile on the feet of faceless men
who walk and talk and dress

the same way you do

When I see your clones in Manhattan

I tell myself you’re too fucking normal

with your routine

your fresh-made bed and your nine-to-five

but I know I’m wrong when I say that

because I’ve never liked normal, ever

and I like(d) you

a lot

trust me, man

it’s not that I’m desperate
I boast an accomplished stable of thoroughbreds
trained to be whipped and spurred
Stallions I can ride at any time of night
who’ll pant and pelt
til I’m satisfied

But not a single racehorse
won me a blanket of roses
and after a few seasons speeding in circles

inevitably

I got pregnant with empty-

too fat to be a jockey

It’s a shame you’re about the derby

the “most exciting two minutes in sports”

because I think about fucking you all the time

but I can’t since

you just want to race, left-handed

along the edge of a dirt track.

Intro to a Story.

You don't care, at this particular point in time, that your mother loves you.

Nor do you care that beyond the bathroom door lies a finite number of opportunities that could make you something great, and that by blowing lines of dope off the ceramic surface of a toilet in a Brooklyn bathroom stall today, as you did yesterday, and probably will do tomorrow, you're most likely throwing them away.

All you care about, at this point in time, is getting the shit out of its wax paper bag, onto a semi-clean surface without spilling any of the powder into the toilet bowl.

And then, soon after leaving the bathroom, you'll find yourself careless…feeling that life is blissful, that you're incredibly healthy, and that the present moment in which you're living is the only period of time that could possibly matter.

Understanding Hippies

I knew, last Monday afternoon, that Franco bought a few hits of acid. In a city where sidewalks seem expensive to walk on, however, a thirteen-dollar tab is a costly purchase, even for the financially sound or well-managed. I’m of neither sort. Rather, I’m the kind who will (err...has) spend an hour washing dirty college boy dishes in exchange for a piece of paper with Lincoln’s face on it,* because I'm always in need of cash. I was under the impression that Nigel and Franco's collective purchase was intended for later use, as Monday night isn’t the best time of week for an acid trip. I’d been told that their plans for the evening were subtle, including homework and a potential beer, but that I could come over if I wanted. When I got to their apartment, Franco was reading a book on his living room couch. Nigel was taping posters to the walls. Things seemed normal until they told me their hits had if fact been eaten, thereby naming me their trip-sitter given I chose to stay.

Within the hour, Nigel’s mattress was on the living room floor, Santana was blaring, and both boys were enjoying closed-eye visuals, blankets covering their faces. I didn’t mind the deli trips my sobriety entailed (Franco really, really wanted Babybells), because watching people in a state of self-inflicted insanity is, generally, quite interesting. Naturally I wrote down some of the things they said. The brilliance of their dialogue began with a revelation on Nigel’s part: “Have you ever realized that...everything is just a vibration, man?”

The following happened after Nigel started to eat an apple:

F: Oh man, is that apple good?”

N: Ahh, man, it’s so good…

F: Could I have a bite…?

Nigel thinks.

N: I Dunno man…

F: It looks so TAASTY! Ah, man...I could write books about what I’m feeling right now.

N: There ARE books about what you’re feeling right now...

Pause.

N: Excuse me….I just gotta rub my face with this apple.

F: DUDE I NEED a bite of that apple man…I feel like I’m gonna eat my BLANKET right now…

Nigel, smiling, offers the red delicious in a meekly outstretched hand.

N: “Come get it man…”

F: “It’s…it’s too far…it’s too far…”

...After Franco claimed to understand the hippies:

F: This is what it was like to live in the sixties man…haha...except we’re in the NINETIES.

Nigel bursts out laughing.

N: No we’re not man!!! We’re in the o’eys…

...And:

N: I’m sorry man, but my penis feels amazing right now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*I’ll wash your dishes for five bucks! I’m great at it.

Budding Business, Familystyle

Two Tuesdays ago, like many other Tuesday afternoons before it, I was at the Palladium dorm hall, smoking a bowl with Carl. I'd wanted to go to Salvation Army afterwards, as my apartment was in need of second-hand re-furnishment, but soon enough, mobilization seemed impossible, and Carl was much more interested, remarkably, in doing homework. I was reading through one of the most boring books ever published (Consequentialism and it's Critics), when he got a phone call. It’s important I mention that he sells weed, and charges standard fare for standard product (predominantly), otherwise the following dialogue wouldn’t make sense to you. I didn’t hear the entirety of the conversation, but some of it went like this:

“Wait...two for what? Two for thirty?”

“A deal??! He’s whacked, I never told him that. I don’t make ‘deals’ like that.”

It wasn’t until after he got off the phone that I found out that the person on the other end was his mother. Apparently, the two of them run a family business together.

Do they learn to hail taxis in daycare?

I was on St. Marks and Second Ave
when I saw this kid
standing around three feet tall
with a backpack and huge eyes
frantically trying to wave down a cab,
catching the attention of no one around him.
I stopped for a second,
and wondered what the hell he was doing
alone in the street,
about to get into a creepy cab by himself,
and I took a few steps forward,
thinking I’d help him out.
but I paused when the light turned red,
because if I wanted to hail this boy a taxi,
i mean,
“I’d have to wait for it to turn green again
which would take forever
and I really wanna get home
because it’s cold outside
and I’m tired
and I’m sure the kid’ll get a cab eventually,
and you know,
if he's a real city kid
he might not even want my help anyway...”
So I went on walking,
like many New Yorkers would,
but even days later,
I kind of wish I helped him.

Brianna Zani

I got word of Zani’s dissapearance through a facebook message. Yunique, a mutual friend, was wondering if I’d heard from her. Her roommates hadn’t heard from her since she called to disclose her plans of suicide. Her wallet, keys, and all of her belongings had been left behind. The next day, her father came to the city to organize a search effort, featuring stacks of homemade flyers, shuffled “repeat tweets” on twitter, and a “Where’s Brianna?” site on blogspot.

I’m not going to say that Zani and I were incredibly close at the time she disappeared. She was, however, one of the people I’d call from my back porch last winter when I needed a friend to talk to. This time a year ago, the two of us had been evacuated from the city, so we’d stay up at night, chainsmoking, bitching about our comparable Suburban towns and how much we missed New York. She was there whenever I needed her to be. On the train home from Harlem that Thursday, all I could think about was her lonely blonde hair in the bottom of a trashcan, and how she must’ve felt at that moment, and how no one was there to hear about it. I cried.

I found out later that Zani had been picked up by the NYPD- they found her sleeping in a Brooklyn alleyway. She was checked into a Bushwick hospital, but walked out three hours post check-in. She was seen in the Williamsburg area a few times during the days thereafter, but the search didn’t end until she decided to walk home and make herself guacamole.

I’m hoping that the ending of the story is a happy one, that Zani gets proper treatment or consideration from here on out, and that maybe soon I can re-thank her, in person, for those late-night phone calls, for giving me her fake ID on her 21st birthday, and for the Blue Moons she bought me when I had no funds for drinking.

I hope I never forget what I learned. When Zani was on the streets in Brooklyn, described as “possibly disoriented” on her Missing Person’s flyers, my relationship with homeless people and those who could pass for “possibly disoriented” changed. On Sunday, a shoeless man with dreads and bloodshot eyes was mumbling undeciferably in the middle of a subway traincar. Surely, it was late, and no one wanted to recognize how painful it must be to walk on pavement barefoot, while its raining, when you’re possibly hungry and/or disoriented. Their indifference didn’t bother me. What did, however, was how surprised the two passengers across from me seemed that I’d give him a five dollar bill. Charity is incredibly rare in New York City.

I can only hope that passers-by made Zani’s stay on the streets a little more comfortable by offering her money or food. It’s easy for New Yorkers to pay no mind to those who beg, but it’s important they remember that the homeless have (or have had) a home somewhere. That they aren't nameless.

There are people in the world who care about the barefooted man on the subway train, much like there are people in the world who care about Brianna Zani.

Sex and Xanax

A few Wednesdays ago, when I was sitting on his living room couch, Nigel asked me if I’d heard what happened the night before. I said no. My friend Franco is a great kid, but he’s gotten into this habit of blowing lines of Xanax while drinking...so, he’s made a number of logistical errors over the past few weeks. One of them, I was told, was when Franco tried using men’s shaving gel for lubricant (he couldn’t find lube or lotion anywhere, and figured it was the next best thing). Around four a.m., the girl he brought home with him started screaming (apparently...it burns...), waking Nigel (and Franco, to an extent) from his slumber. I laughed really hard. Definitely a good story.

Faggotry from Early January

it was snowing at eight-fifty this morning,

when you kissed a boy on the cheek

“it was lovely to meet you,”

you knew you were never going to see him again.

His name was Lucian,

an underage kid you met the night before

at a music venue in Williamsburg.

really, you weren’t into the idea of going out that night

because it was cold

and a train ride seemed like too much effort

for overpriced drinks and a hipster crowd,

but you just had to get laid...

so to Bedford you went

in a short dress and tights-

your legs were numb and windburnt by the time you got there.

You were having a cigarette with your flirtacious crew of lesbians

when he stopped to ask what your name was.

He didn’t seem to mind that you stumbled around on the dance floor

or that you lit a cigarette indoors

or that you had to beg the bouncer to let you back in

and at the end of the night, when he asked for your number,

you suggested you spend the night with him instead.

He hailed a cab for the financial district

The backseat might has well’ve been a mattress.

You woke on the top of a dormroom bunkbed.

Lucian found your clothes when you told him to,

and upon getting into a cab,

you realized that 2010 was going to be a good year,

because you went out to get what you were looking for,

even if it was a substitute for something better,

and you found this morning

that Chico’s murals on Loisada,

the ones that always looked like propaganda to you,

were beautiful

because they reminded you that you were home.

and for a second you forgot how much you hated winter

because snow makes everything look beautiful.

The evening left your tights shredded,

your wallet cashless,

and even though the sex was good,

you can’t stop thinking about that something better.

Which is remarkable,

considering he’s twelve years your senior

and he’s been a junkie for almost as long as you’ve been alive,

and he can’t afford his rent,

and you’re sure the only thing he really likes about you

is that you’re a body capable of keeping the other side of his bed warm...

it’s amazing the way your brain works sometimes.

If only my parents knew.

They were right in not wanting me to come here.

They told me there’d be too many distractions

that it’d be too easy to get lost

And that it gets really cold in New York City,

But that’s okay today

Because I’m still young

And snow makes everything beautiful.

Shoplifting

It was a month before my eighteenth birthday. I’d been staring at the same walls for hours, my thighs were sticking to the metal of my designated chair, and crotch rot was festering at my lady parts. I was ready to piss myself, in part because nature decreed that humans will urinate after drinking too many diet cokes, but more so because I was scared shitless of what the next few hours entailed. Relieving myself was an option, but that day I became a juvenile delinquent, and a trip to the loo required the supervision of a police officer. I don’t really like handcuffs (at least not at the hands of law-enforcement), or being publically humiliated, so I chose to stay stuck to the taupe fold-out that was my seating assignment. My bladder could wait.

Along with a sadistic cop who enjoyed watching teenage girls cry, an old-looking chick was in the room wearing cut-off denim shorts and an orange tank top. She was the shift leader. I was the epitome of apologetic to both of them, and even though I confessed my wrongdoing the second I was approached by a sales clerk, they treated me like something innately despicable. Maybe it was because I told them I was going to NYU in the fall. They probably thought I was a spoiled NYU girl who really could afford the gray-sweater dress she tried hiding under her clothes, but did so anyway because she got a kick out of stealing. Granted, my parents have the money to send me to one of the most expensive universities in America, but that doesn’t mean I have an unlimited fashion fund to drain at my choosing. An over-priced piece-of-shit sweater dress from Urban Outfitters is what they’d consider a frivolous purchase, and they've never supported frivolity. They’re of the wealthy frugal brand. The money I could muster out of them was as precious as it was scarce, and I saved everything I had for beer and weed. Regardless, being presumptuous has its perks. I entertained the thought that the cop was an incriminating asshole who took his job too seriously due to a lackluster marriage, and wasn’t getting enough (if any) pussy. On the other hand, the shift leader had a chronically sandy vagina because she was working a dead-end job, chewing out teenage shoplifters in the D.C. suburbs. I didn’t rule out jealously. I was hotter than she was, and despite her working for a trendy apparel conglomerate, she couldn’t pull off denim cut-off shorts. The presumption helped a lot. I didn’t lose my temper when the cop implied I was something along the lines of a stupid fuck-up.

In all honesty, I do have days when I am incredibly stupid.

I like to think that I hang out with predominately good people, but when you’re a broke seventeen-year-old, morality is open to interpretation. Congruently, shopping had a mildly different meaning in my social circles, as money didn’t have to be involved. Rather, brashness and craft are what my friends depended on for merchandise. As I didn’t and never have possessed either of those traits, I tried to keep my hands clean when my crew was cruising stores, stealing pube trimmers or beer or cheap jewelry. Once in a while I’d jack a bottle of nail polish from CVS, or a cheap pair of tennis shoes from a bargain store, but that was a seldom occurrence reserved for an occasion when I was feeling ballsy.
That afternoon, upon entry into Zoe’s station wagon, I demanded a drugstore visit. I explained that at a party a few nights ago, Phil Snell’s fingers must’ve been dirty, because I developed a nasty yeast infection and would do anything for Monistat. I was prepared for a proper transaction at the CVS register, but John, a beautiful gay boy with altruistic inclinations, was too practical for that kind of speak.

“Vicki…how bout I steal you something for your crusty vadge…and you can save the money for a bag of weed instead?”

John's a great friend. Hands down, he's also the best shoplifter I’ve ever met. Though he was arrested at Marshalls a year later, he was an ingenious klepto, and could walk out of any store with something up his sleeves, down his pants, or on his back. His venture down the feminine hygiene isle initiated a trip to Urban Outfitters, in which everything my friends gathered was pulled off the rack via five-finger discount. I made it clear that I didn’t want to steal anything that day, but after spotting for Zoe as she loaded clothes into her Spiderman backpack, I felt the urge to make an addition to my wardrobe. When I came across a gray-sweater dress I thought would be perfect for a nippy New York morning, I had two options. I could pine over how cute it would’ve been with booties or over leggings, or I could steal it. Choosing the latter, I hid the cashmere-y number under a bunch of t-shirts, and landed myself a fitting room. I nipped and tucked it to fit under my clothes, managed to tear off its ink tag, but (of course) left the price tag on the floor. When a sweet-looking sales clerk asked me if she could reattach the tag I left on the blue carpeting of the fitting room, my heart started racing. I told her it wasn’t mine. She told me it was. I’d been caught red handed and I didn’t know what to say. I confessed that there was a 50 dollar dress under my clothes…that I was sorry and stupid…that I’d take it off immediately and give it back to her if she’d let me. When you’re a dumb girl hanging with a flock of tattooed teens in tight pants, diplomacy doesn’t really work for you.
Before I got hold of my mother, I appreciated the safety of the loss-prevention office. Granted, I was uncomfortable, scared, and surrounded by a bunch of assholes, but I was safe. I was a minor, and petty larceny isn’t a big deal if your record will be wiped clean in a few weeks. No one in that room had the power to destroy my life. My mom’s reaction to the fresh marks on my formerly unscathed record terrified me, however, and I knew that home would be anything but a haven from this point on. Behind closed doors I was subject to my parents’ mercy, and being merciful surely wasn’t on their agenda that evening.

During some bitter interaction with the shift leader, my mom made clear to both of us that I was a spoiled brat deserving of jail time. I walked with her out of the store, and when I tried apologizing, she hissed at me:

“Don’t speak. Give me your phone. Stay ten paces behind me. Don’t sit in the passenger’s seat. Get in the back.”

Each order was short and profound. All over again, I started crying profusely..

The first thing I saw when I walked up the stairs was a heaping pile of black contractor bags in the hallway. My Dad and my brother were cleaning out my room, throwing everything I owned into garbage bags, coming across things they knew I had and others they didn’t. Packs of cigarettes. Pregnancy tests. An empty forty. An hour ago I thought my dad was merely going to box my ears in the kitchen, with the sole purpose of explaining that I was a selfish freak with an authority problem. Instead, my shit, as well as my person, was about to be shipped somewhere and no one was telling me where I was going. I reacted the way any selfish freak with an authority problem would.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY STUFF?!”
I can’t remember what happened next, all I know is that there was a point when I tried stopping them from piling the bags into the car, and my Dad and I stopped using indecipherable barks and shrieks to communicate with each other. He pushed me down, but I got back up. He grabbed my arm, forcing me down to the ground again, and I used every bit of strength I had to push him away from me. I struggled. Immune to the unworthy escalation that ensued, my mother and brother watched him squeeze his hands around my neck. I couldn't breathe.

After he let go, I stayed on the hardwood floor. They kept loading my things into the car as if nothing had happened. I was crying too hard to see. Jumping in my brain like reels on a slot machine, panic replaced any feasible thoughts in my head. There was nothing I could do but watch them relocate my life from my bedroom to the trunk of a minivan.

I spent the last few weeks of my summer in Stevensville, Maryland, with my family, the bay, and not much else. Convinced my friends were the problem, my parents transported the entirety of our unit to the middle of nowhere, where they owned a beach house.

I haven’t shoplifted since.