Going Solo

By Shirlee Jellum

I flew alone on my first trip—sixteen, sassy, certain I’d find ‘the light.’ With notebook, pen, and poetic curiosity, I cushioned myself on the neighbor’s couch, dropped one acid tab, and waited. The clock stopped ten past midnight.

Tongue coated in cotton, eyes burning like two smoldering coals, crow song crackled across my brain. I coasted between dream and wakefulness, watching walls wobble, candles stretch, contract, fake flames’ crystal fingers tap mirrors trapped in shadows.

I couldn’t move. Mummy wrapped in a room with invisible bars, my journey with journal was forgotten. Like the two toddlers asleep down the hall.