In the Witching Hours of My Youth By April Ridge

Every year that goes by

I find I have a harder time

not nearly peeing my pants.

The muscles used to grip dicks

just aren’t being used 

as much as

when I was a kid and 

Liz Phair’s ‘Fuck and Run’ 

ran through my head

as I played out a scripted role of

full time barely-getting-by barfly, 

tramp, and part time mixologist.

Falling off of stools,

drinks crashing to the ground;

alcoholism making a grand tool of me.

My bank account 

slowly suffering

until it dried out,

withering,

a dead husk of a thing.

Just like me 

from the ages of 23 to 30,

slowly meandering through the motions

of wanting more,

yet taking less 

than I could afford to share 

with men whom simply didn’t care

for companionship with ties that bind.

But they always 

seemed to find the time

for me at midnight 

when the drinks were 

flowing freely 

in the witching hours 

of my youth.

I can find no proof,

no patterned words 

that lead toward truth,

that these hard-learned lessons

have earned me anything

other than a scarred liver and some

stained memories 

of the tragedies that

came before that 

I can’t even remember.

Blackout drunk 

on someone’s floor and

always wishing there was more.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.