These are for the Head That Won’t Cave In.
The longer I stayed with Larry, the longer I continued to drink, the harder I sunk into a despair that was unlike anything I have experienced since. Every day was a waste of time, a pit of agony in a world that didn’t suit me.
This poem, scrawled inside a magazine I don’t recognize, describes how I felt every single day.
Today I have 32 years clean and sober.
If I didn’t, I would still feel the way I did in 1987. Or I would be dead, which is far more likely.