I Bumble About Like a Total Dick by Elisabeth Horan


I Bumble About Like a Total Dick

by Elisabeth Horan

I am in the darkness hole, the light is fading, I am afraid. this is the deepest hour of my penance, my brain has long gone to the cauldron. I don't know how to come back. I am reaching for the lifeline, and I cannot see through the pain---

This is the demonic party time - they come and put the needles in my ears. Inject the arsenic and glower in the fame of it. My death. It makes them stronger - they say, we knew we could do it!!! Elisabeth is here no longer. 

Today I made it through a whole day. I was so strong… Almost a whole day. 

Nevermind, no, not the whole day. I am in my car. I am driving to the store. I am buying intoxicants. I did not make it today. Not at all. I failed again today.

I need to go to the doctor. But then they will know about me. (What I do to myself). I am terrified I have cancer. Hepatitis. I am ruining my liver. I can’t swallow, I have eye floaters, heart palpitations, anxiety attacks stacked one atop the other. I need help but they will know. They will know what I’ve been up to so I cannot go. I cannot go. Even if it means I will die---

I would never have made it through the day at work today. Good thing I called in sick. Oh my god, look at my face. Swollen eyes, huge bags under them too. Red red ruddied skin, broken capillaries. I look like fucking hell on fire. Jesus Christ. Teary bleary eyes, shaking hands. I cannot shake anyone’s hand and say, thank you for coming in to sign your will, Sir. I never would have made it. Not today. Good things I stayed home. Again---

I’m a really angry person when I’m hungover. As if its someone elses fault I did this to myself. I bumble around like a total dick. Eyes to the ground, in a rush, irritable, road raging, impatient bloated fuck off sister. Dehydrated. Gearing up for mac and cheese chocolate milk and all night on the couch Law & Order. Why do I deserve anything close to as good as that? I should be forced to grind my own teeth and eat shit salad. It’s my fault. I put the twelve beers in there. To rot the lining of my stomach. I make everyone pay. Especially my husband.

I am in the driveway, car running. I am fetal; prone. What are you doing, Liz? He says. Fuck you, I hiss, just leave me alone. 


author photo

Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. Elisabeth is EIC at Animal Heart Press and Poetry Editor at Anti-Heroin Chic. Elisabeth also glides along as Co-Editor of IceFloe Press, with Robert Kenter, in Toronto.

She recently earned her MFA from Lindenwood University and received a 2018 Best of the Net Nomination from Midnight Lane Boutique and a 2018 Pushcart Nomination from Cease Cows. She has books coming out in 2019 with Fly on the Wall Poetry Press, Twist in Time Press, Rhythm & Bones Press and Hedgehog Poetry Press. You can witness her reading May 1 at Pen and Brush, Manhattan, and June 15 at Knife Fork Books, Toronto. She'd very much love to see you there <3

Follow her @ehoranpoet  & ehoranpoet.com

(Pronouns: she/her)