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[queenofcatastrophes]

apt. 1904

Everything was oversaturated in Apartment 1904 — 

Her mind with blurry memories of dreams that had disappeared with the flutter of her eyelids. 

The room with rays of sunlight that beamed through the curtainless windows. 

A feeling deep within her chest as she realized that she had risen with the sun. 

She was alive for another day. 

It was all too much. 

She needed:

a cup of coffee,

a cigarette,

a paintbrush in her hand, 

& 

a sense of purpose. 

[queenofcatastrophes]

the rain

“will i ever feel at home among the living again?” she muses, pulling her jacket closer to her slender body. there was no answer offered to her inner dialogue. she didn’t know if she would ever be able to look at another human being again and smile. the thought alone sets off a panic deep in her chest. it spreads to her lungs. breaths become uneven. she couldn’t give pieces of herself away like that anymore like she had before. it had been so easy to place a soft touch on a shoulder, give a soft whisper of words. there were so many of those pieces she had thrown away that she would never get back. she couldn’t afford to lose anymore. 

yet, she knows that the probability of her survival if she lives within the four walls of her apartment, surrounded by the swirling memories of the past as her constant companion is slim. so, she walks down the sidewalk, avoiding the gaze of the other city residents. they move with such carefree motion compared to her own tight movements. she’s waiting for the moment someone recognizes her and she’ll have to melt into the pavement. that moment never comes, though. 

instead — a cold bead of rain falls onto her forehead, rolls lazily down her cheek. her gaze turns upward and, quickly, her vision is broken by the precipitation. people around her scatter, trying to seek cover under newspapers and umbrellas. a chaotic panic spreads amongst the masses. “how strange,” she thinks “to be afraid of the rains touch.”

hands tucked into pockets, she strolls down the now abandoned sidewalk. rain pours over her clothed body and washes her clean of the leftover stench of her haunted apartment. 

[queenofcatastrophes]

anything

A woman croons a melody from an unknown corner of the subway station. Her effortless notes reverberate against the filthy walls and I sway with the sound. You can find the most soulful people waiting for the subway in New York. I open my eyes as I sense someone moving near me. Just a child with her fingers laced within her mother’s. I follow her gaze and see where the beautiful music is coming from. A young woman standing by a cup half full of coins continues the piercing song. I face the tracks again and close my eyes. When I do this — it feels like I could be anywhere in the world. It gives me a sense false of hopefulness. Something that I do not deserve. 

“I want to be a singer like her when I grow up,” the young girls says softly. I’m not sure if she’s speaking directly to her mother or letting her wish float out into the universe. Either way, I feel a smile spread across my face. Her little voice is so sweet and hopeful — it makes my heartache. I find myself wanting that wish of hers to come true, too. 

“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Her mother inquires. I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just know that you can be anything that you want to be, baby.” 

The statement strikes a chord within me and my eyes snap open. I feel a surge of anger assault every single one of my nerves. How could a mother be so cruel? How could she lie to a child and tell her that she can do anything, be anyone? I know this world and I know that these kinds of ideals are childish and fade away with time. So, why build the child up, just to tear her down? I glance over at the pair and catch the mother’s eyes. She gives me a warm smile and a brief nod. Her girl is fixed on the woman, still singing, in the corner. I’ve never seen someone so enthralled with the world. 

It occurs to me, for the first time, that the mother isn’t lying. It’s clear from the adoring way she looks at her child — she truly believes the girl can do anything. I feel myself believing it, too, as she hums her own melody. This bright star, standing on the same subway platform as me, will be something spectacular. All because her mother believes in her. 

I think of my own mother who is a thousand miles away. 

I could have been anything, too, but my mother never told me so. 

[queenofcatastrophes]

beating

It trickles down the pathways of my brain, weaving its way through every crevice it can infect. My forehead pulses with a familiar rhythm and I fight the urge to claw at it. It wants to escape, to fill the stagnant air of my apartment. But, I won’t let it. Not again, not tonight. It’s too soon for this to happen again. The feeling of normalcy, whatever that is, has just started to return. I can finally stand to look outside of the bedroom window and not wince at the sunlight. Can drink something other than flat club soda and gin. But, it’s slowly suffocating me. Cutting off the oxygen supply that streams to my brain. That rhythm is beating, beating, beating against my skull. I can’t take. 

Hands meet skull, forcefully, and a whimper fills the air. I slap myself again. My head is the drum and now I’m the one keeping the rhythm. Pacing back and forth, in front of the black abyss that shines through the glass door leading to a fire escape. How easy it would be to just disappear into that darkness. To stop this ceaseless beat within me. To take one final, deep breath before it consumes me. 

The glass door slides open with ease and I stare into the night. Beating, beating, beating. Within my head, within my chest, within my soul. Wetness runs down my cheek and I scream. Letting the rhythm I carry within me fill the darkness and become a part of it. The door closes and I stare into the glass reflection. 

There is no rhythm now. Just a sad girl looking directly at me. 

[queenofcatastrophes]

tiny broken thing

Half melted ice cubes assault each other in the glass as her hips sway to the lazy beat of the song that has been on repeat for thirty minutes. She looks at the straw she’s been using in her cocktail of choice: whiskey on the rocks. It’s one of those sadly skinny straws you use to stir your coffee. At this point, it’s practically useless. Besides, didn’t she vow to quit using plastic products on some facebook group? Fingers pluck the thin cylinder and toss it over her shoulder before she brings the glass to her lips. It all drains from the glass and down her throat. Her eyes are closed and she’s still swaying to the music. She is lost in this moment and smiles.   She is no longer who she used to be and is far away from being someone else. She stays in this moment of limbo and relishes in the idea of never having to be anyone or anything again. She is unknowable and that brings her comfort. Only one soul has truly known her own — and now that soul is gone. So, yes, her senses are muddled. And, yes, she is withdrawing from reality. But, it’s what she wants.   Shin meets coffee table and the facade is dropped. She is back in her dimly lit apartment with the condensation from her glass running down her hand in the form of small droplets. The noise was small but distinct as the vibration of the collision is sent outward and upward. Her shin is on fire and a trinket lays on the floor. Hands shake as the glass is noisily sat amongst the wooden surface and she squats down. Shards of porcelain make a mosaic on her wooden floor. It was beautiful intact and is, admittedly, still beautiful as it lay ruined.   Her summer dress clad ass plops down onto the flooring and she takes a deep breath. The one thing she has left of her sister stares up at her. A porcelain ballerina took from the shelf of precious keepsakes. Just a treasure to hold dear to her heart. She looks up and catches her fuzzy reflection in the blank screen of her television. Hair piled high on top of a familiar head, tired eyes above a crooked nose, and the dullest stare she’s ever seen.   She is such a tiny broken thing.  

[queenofcatastrophes]

return

Something about it looks incredibly sad, she thinks. Even without the wilted leaves and dry dirt within the pot — the plant would look absolutely miserable. Her fingers run over the cracking segments of the abandoned greenery. Blue hues glance out of the sliding glass door that leads to a small balcony that is littered in half-smoked cigarettes. Perhaps her worst habit of all is her easily distracted mind. Mid-smoke, an idea will hit her and she’ll so easily abandon the expensive stick between her lips. Money forgotten, money wasted. The blue light of the moon is dim tonight and it gives her an eerie feeling. It has only been a month and a half since she was last inside of her New York apartment. It’s not like she has forgotten the small details of this space. Like the ballerina trinket in the middle of her coffee table, or the stain on the carpet near the tv. Everything is just how she left it. Yet, something feels intensely different as she stands in this particular spot. Her eyes are heavy from lack of sleep and she feels woozy on her feet. Why has she come back here? Hasn’t she realized that nothing will ever be the same? Not here, not in Brewton, Alabama, not in the next spot she lands. She feels the solid ground beneath her feet and realizes that despite the increased beating of her heart — she is grounded here for the time being. Jolene will stay in this place until everything is finished falling apart — and when that day comes, she knows what to do.

[queenofcatastrophes]

loss has no end

Steam hovers above the dark asphalt of the paved roads like it always does after summer thunderstorms. A familiar eeriness fills my chest as the rented Cadillac comes to a soft stop at the edge of the cemetery. My hands shake in my lap, stark in contrast with the black dress they lay upon. We used to sneak down here during late summer nights, bringing candles to honor the dead. It was never our intention to disturb those who had passed, we simply wanted to let them know that the living still thought about them. Maggie had never been scared, even though she was so much younger. She would just intertwine her fingers with mine and carry a single candle in her free hand. I think of how content she was with the idea of death now, as my shoes sink into the wet soil of the earth, and wonder if it was a sign. Was the universe preparing her for this ending? The people of Brewton, Alabama are in their Sunday best. Stiff collared shirts paired with faded denim Levi's, pantyhose under delicate dresses with pearls draped around various necks. It’s so nostalgic that my heart aches in a different way for the first time in a week. I feel like I am five years old and standing in front of my grandma’s own grave. I want to reach out and clutch my mother’s hand, as I did so many years ago, seeking some sort of comfort. But, I’m not five and the woman next to me isn’t my mother anymore. The only thread that kept us together was Maggie — and she’s gone. Pastor Brown, a familiar and friendly member of the community, sends a sad smile in my direction. We discussed this moment behind closed doors, within the church I used to sing hymns within as a child. With a simple nod, he lets me know that this moment is mine and Maggie’s. He will make sure that I get the closure that I so desperately crave. My heart beats like the wings of the hummingbirds we used to feed sugar water to. I can imagine them so clearly in my mind as I step towards Pastor Brown and a small smile graces my lips. All of these small, seemingly unimportant things remind me of Maggie and her pure heart. The first tear spills from my left eye. My mother’s face is incredulous as I stand before the dozens of people surrounded around Maggie’s new home. I look down at the coffin-sized hole in the ground and feel the urge to jump in and start burying myself with the loose dirt. Instead, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. She’s gone and I’m here. My eyes open and focus on the trees lazily swaying in the distance from a small breeze. “When I think of my sister — I think of all of the things in this world that we take for granted. Like the feeling of the warm sun kissing our skin after getting soaked from a rainstorm, wildflowers that scatter about in abandoned fields, the smile of a stranger as you pass by. Maggie, just like those things, was taken for granted by this world. She had more to offer than anyone else that I know. Her smile alone was going to change the world.” The tears burn my eyes now and roll down my rosy cheeks. I feel like I can’t continue — until I see the tears in my mother’s eyes as I spare her a glance. She’s biting her lower lip and holding a handkerchief near her face. Maggie always resembled Mama, especially on days like these, when her skin was bare and naturally glowing. I gasp for air and Pastor Brown reaches for me, steadying me. I regain my composure and look at the crowd of faces staring back at me. “Maggie was — and always will be — the love of my life. Everything changed when she came into this world and now it will never be the same.” I pull myself free from Pastor Brown’s grip and walk away from them all. It feels wrong to talk about her like this in front of so many people who hadn’t bothered to really know her. Yet, it would have felt equally as wrong to keep my testament to myself. I fall to my knees, underneath the tree in the middle of the cemetery, and let the grief tear me apart.

[queenofcatastrophes]

maggie

Have you ever noticed how the earth smells after it rains? It’s like the wet soil of the forest’s floor wears perfume. Aromatic and lustful. It makes my nose wrinkle up and my mouth perks into a smile. It reminds me that we’re alive — the earth and I. Maybe that’s why I chose to go on a walk that day. Streams of light were breaking through the spotty grey clouds and the humidity of the south warmed my skin. I felt like leaving Brewton, Alabama, I decided. Something about the rain always made me feel restless like I’d never be able to sit still again. So, I walked down our dirt driveway, leaving the double-wide life behind. Feeling like a child running away from home, I grinned at my new found freedom. It didn’t matter that I only had a jar of quarters, stray dollar bills, and four granola bars to my name. They finally couldn’t stop me. The first eighteen years of my life were covered in glitter and sashes that read ‘Junior Miss Alabama’. A twinkle could be seen in my mother’s eyes when I walked out on stage. Her perfect daughter. Only, it wasn’t me. That wasn’t her daughter on stage. It was a stranger who happened to be expelled from her womb. I was inside, though, and endured it all. The last year of my life was littered with hateful glares and metaphorically daggers in backs. I had given up our dream. I was going to be Miss America, you know? Get out of this town, see the world, and get an education. The whole nine. Then, one day, I woke up. I stepped out of the skin of the creature I didn’t connect to. My flesh was raw and real, for the first time in my life.

That’s why I left. The earth was fresh with the remnants of the rain and I felt my heart flutter with every step. The woods in that part of Alabama are dense but full of trails. Locals can tell you every turn you need to take by indicating the bark on trees. As a former girl scout — I was convinced that following the trails to the greyhound station, next to the Piggly Wiggly, would be a simple task. One I had done a handful of times in my youth. My sister, Jo, would wrap her warm hand around mine and swing them back and forth as we ventured to get milk and butter for our mother. She’d sing songs that I imagined came straight from her beautiful mind. I thought of Jo as I snapped twigs with my boots. She hadn’t been home in three years. I wondered what she looked like or what music she would sing now. That’s where I wanted to go, really, to be with Jo in New York. She had gotten out at the perfect time. I had taken up all of Mama’s time and Daddy never paid much mind to what we did anyway. Especially since he had started collecting his disability checks. They barely noticed when she left a note saying ‘NYC XO’. I carried that note in my pocket, though. Everywhere I went — I wanted to be reminded that she left Brewton, Alabama at her own accord. She had done the impossible. There wasn’t a moment in my life that I didn’t want to be just like Jo. I wish I could have told her that I was coming to be with her. But, that’s not what happened.

I went into the forest near 4278 Starhill Drive on May 24, 2019, heading east to the greyhound bus station. A mile and a half stretch of land stood between myself and freedom. But, I never made it. When they find me — it will be too late.

[queenofcatastrophes]

sincere

she felt as if one more tug would completely destroy her. like the thread that held her together would fall into pools at her feet. it had been slowly unraveling all along — she was just too afraid to admit it. now, here she was, sitting opposite of the only living soul she trusted: kahlo. her kind eyes made her feel ashamed in a way, like baring her soul like this wasn't a heroic thing to do. jo's trembling hand covered her face, not being able to look at the woman. — "i feel nothing. i feel it all. i feel too much. i don't want it anymore. what do i do?" her chin quivered from the stress of compressing her true emotions. a racking sob flooded her body and she felt kahlo's hand take her own. — "we'll figure it out. together." she thought those were the most sincere words she had ever heard — !

[queenofcatastrophes]

brewton, alabama

The southern heat wraps around my body like a damp blanket and I want to rip it off of my skin. I feel suffocated by the humidity and buzzing of summertime bugs as I stand at the bus stop on the outskirts of Brewton, Alabama. Everything is painted in a bright shade of green and yellow as rays of sunshine beat down against the scene. I feel a lump form in my throat and I try to swallow it back down. A dull pain stays there, waiting for it’s time to rise again. It isn’t the time or the place for such a display of emotion. Those acts are reserved for when I am positively alone. Away from the world. My skin burns under the scrutiny of the sun and I know that I can’t stay in this singular space for too long. I would look suspicious, people lazily driving down the main dirt road would stop, questions would be asked. Everyone in this town knows why I am here — but, it wouldn’t stop their prying eyes or lips. I don’t think I could survive the supposed “good-hearted” inquisition of a single soul. I want to be away from the glances of these people I left behind. I want to be alone. But, I’m here. Despite the deal I made with God all of those years ago. I promised Him I would never step foot onto Brewton, Alabama again if he got me out. I would leave behind all of the reckless nights, bad habits, and memories if I could find a different place to call “home”. I had kept up my end of the deal until this very moment. Now, I can feel all of the things I had been running from coming back to me. The nights when Daddy would come home and reach for whoever was closest by the hair, Mama’s cigarette ashes burning against skin, Maggie’s eyes full of wonder. My knees feel weak and I close my eyes. Maggie. Whatever bit of magic that was left in this town completely vanished when Maggie took her last breath. This place would never be the same again — and neither would I.

[queenofcatastrophes]

the mirror

I don’t know who that is, she thought. A small line running along a steady course above eyebrows. Lips trembling with every breath — inhaled and exhaled. The blank stare of icy blues reflecting against the surface. She felt changed around. Like her heart was nested in her stomach, like she would never escape this. (Whatever this is within that moment.) She felt, deeply, that she wasn’t looking at herself. But, THE MIRROR NEVER LIES.