Wallace Barker

by Siobhan Bledsoe

august 2013

was the month i decided to ditch art school MFA

san francisco and a chance for a beginning overlooking the Pacific

even though when i flew out i smoked a joint with a stranger and felt at

peace.

the month where i gave up my room for the romance of transience

which meant getting drunk almost every night at Irene’s . . . $2 PBRS, shots.

i got fake engaged this month, he claimed love at first sight,

we drew rings with Bic pens on

each others fingers and Instagrammed it;

i found my other magnet:

we’d lay on his cot in his studio without a bathroom door

and hold hands, wake up at 10:22 AM, he’s off to work—no

time for coffee,

peeing in front of someone isn’t that vulnerable.

i shared the toothbrushes of at least five people and carried deodorant,

a change of clothes, must and perfume. church pews make for

good naps if you light a candle out of rusty

catholic guilt afterwards.

i still don’t know if i’m engaged but either way

we’ll have a party: disengagement or a bash on a farm somewhere green

music plays, wine is paid for.

august was the month i took a seven hour

bus ride down to Truro with $5 in my pocket (dunkin donut hashbrowns; water)

to visit my father and his second family, jumped into the ocean hoping

it’d wipe some of the depression away that has settled like a heavy

fog;

my exboyfriend was/is a heroin addict was a real august realization

that liars lie, that the dialogue is more complicated than

"you’re an ADDICT" reduction, but, still, FUCK YOU, how many times

did i worry i’d wake up and you’d be dead beside me? sometimes humans suck,

sometimes.

august was the month of sex, sex with

a rich hippie who had a girlfriend (surprise!) but he took me to L’Avventura

anyway and i took away my self­esteem by sleeping with him that night,

he’d make eye contact while inside of me and then i’d stare at his painting

hanging

over his bed, a portrait of a chinese man wearing a hat that said "follow your

heart" there

are so many words within "follow your heart" ­­­ i’d trace them as

i’d trace his back. ALLOW, ALLAY, YORE, YURT, HURT.

august: where friends became real and revealed, where

i needed leeway not judgment

and found those that gave it (friend liz; anointed sister)

the month i spent two days in bed

with annie smoking js watching Netflix while she waited for her German

boyfriend to return -­­ massages always help.

i did the same at omars, our eyes binge ate all of "house of cards"

kevin spacey, that voice.

the month i looked for a job and found one just yesterday, my uniform

will be all black + a turquoise red bull, the month where i ignored my

mom for two weeks because she was all "back to Boston" but no i was too busy

learning that change really added up to money, usually a single ride

metrocard, the month when i had to e­mail my therapist on vacation and have a

panic attack over the "subject line" so i took more anti­anxiety pills and

that never ends well, where a BOA employee talked to me about my history of

overdrafting.

what else doesn’t end well? having sex and not peeing after, that decision goes straight to your kidneys and then 1,500 MG of Amoxicillin later

by Joseph Moore

one of the asian kid that came out of the darkness to jump kick a friend twice

one of a friend standing in the street yelling that he was on bath salts

one of a friend arriving from new york shirtless at 4 am biking from south station