On February 6, DMC celebrates its TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! Holy mackerel, time flies. It's been a great year. We've published hundreds of pieces this year that we feel proud and honored to share, and we also put out our first book! This week we will be counting down the Top Ten Most Read posts from our second year of existence, and will present #2 and #1 on Saturday, February 6. Thanks for being part of a wild and excellent two years. @ The Poet I Become When I Drink Look, we both know everyone in your life who knows better is glad your 21st birthday doesn’t fall on a Friday. But the truth is, you’ll still party anyway soak your angel cake in alcohol then light the candles & the whole thing will go up in flames. And you’ll say fuck it and gorge on all the ashes as long as they’re enough to get you drunk. What was it you did at 20? A whole year with only a few shards to remember. That’s what addiction does. Mourning the eight inches of hair you cut off & the man-shaped mold someone left on the only moon you could see from your front window. Can’t even remember his name now. Chances are, it was just a one-night stand. Chances are, the whole time you two were kissing you were blacked out. Triplet I am one in three. Inside the womb, when we were just tiny origami limbs made of skin folding ourselves into something only a mother could love we learned more than we wanted to about loss. The fourth child died. Some ocean tide pulled the wrong way, the umbilical cord too tight- whatever story we wanted to believe in was ours for the taking. That’s how my two siblings grew up hungry for fairy tales & the night in shining armor that always saves the damsel in distress, me, I grew up easy to leave and, you know that saying about something being so difficult that it takes an arm and a leg to accomplish? It takes a whole body for someone to love me, complete with extra finger bones & elbow joints included in the packaging in case one set still isn’t enough. When I was a kid, I swore I saw ghosts. The rippling of bathtub water without anyone in it, footprints climbing the stairs like piano octaves. I found the fourth child’s hair in my bed, her breath evaporating from my mirrors. My siblings never believed in the supernatural, had stubborn heads & stubborn hearts. That child haunted me like a postcard from a place that no one knows exists and after all the hospital trips after too much drinking and some poorly-planned bridge jump all my suicide attempts fell into place: ghosts have a way of making us guilty for the lives we get to lead. The fourth child didn’t get to have one at all; maybe I was just trying to make room for her. I am one in three but sometimes I wish I were the fourth. The Birth Defect That Made Me Afraid of Love In my spare time I design ways to make people fall in love with anyone but me. It’s hard business, a nine-to-five job, but better than having to deal with unwanted feelings. The scar from my mother’s caesarean section still stretches across half her belly like a crescent moon, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why my father left her: because she had already been cut open before he’d even had a chance to do it himself. In my apartment I stack slips of paper with men’s phone numbers into piles that I later crisp into ash with my lighter. All the other tenants in the building think I have Friday night bonfires where I cook hot dogs and hamburgers over the grill. They don’t realize that the smell of smoke comes from some version of unrequited love. My rejection letters to jilted men always end with the words don’t call me again. Maybe all of this somehow relates back to my childhood, when the boy across the block knocked down a wasp nest with his baseball bat like a piñata, setting them upon me, stinging me so many times I grew to associate love with hurt. But whatever it is, my psychology professor suggests that maybe somehow I was turned upside down in the womb, my tiny fists flailing like compass needles, until my feet pointed to my mother’s heart instead of my head, so I grew up unable to listen to anyone else’s heartbeat without wanting to kick it into silence instead.
February 2, 2016
#10 – Three Poems – Meggie Royer