This is a collection of poetry called "Tributaries" by Alexandra Rumsey. The author shares her personal journey of going to rehab twice and being sober for 11 months. The poems reflect her process of making peace with her sobriety and confronting past traumas. The book includes a trigger warning as it addresses topics such as death, grief, sexual assault, addiction, and self-harm. The author expresses gratitude to a friend named Ryan for supporting her and encouraging her to write. The poems touch on themes of addiction, mental health, and relationships.
Tributaries, a book of poetry, by Alexandra Rumsey. Introduction by the author. This poetry book is a collection of poems I wrote from 2020 to 2024. In that span of time, I went into rehab twice, and as of today while writing this introduction, I have been sober for 11 months. Through therapy, meditation, spirituality, and most importantly, friends and family, I have made peace with my sobriety, mostly. I have also confronted and am attempting to make peace with my past traumas and experiences.
These poems are a reflection of this process, the good, bad, and ugly. Really ugly. The first poem in this book is the longest, maybe the saddest, I promise they get shorter in length after that one. Some even a little happy or hopeful. Thank you for reading. Disclaimer and trigger warning. This book will reference the following. Death, grief, sexual assault, alcohol and drug abuse, recovery, pregnancy loss, physical and emotional abuse, sexual content, suicidal ideation, and self-harm. If you are not in the mental state where you are able to read or listen to poetry about these subject matters, I advise you to not read this book.
If you are struggling, know you are not alone. Know there is hope. Know there is light in the world. Seek help. Please. Love, Alex. Thank you. Thank you, Ryan, for reading these poems, for letting me recite them out loud, for being one of the only people I let read them until now. Thank you for encouraging me to write, to live, to be happy. Thank you for supporting me and believing in me for the last 12 years.
Thank you for supporting me through my recovery. You are my very best friend. I would not be here without you, and if I was, I certainly wouldn't be who I am now. I love you forever. Bottomless 1823. I might be a drunk, but at least I'm exposed. I seek out closure. I try to make amends. I drink in secret. At least my secrets don't hurt anyone but me. And maybe I'm just tired of feeling and hearing this rapid heartbeat on the nights I can't sleep, thinking about you or you or me.
Maybe if I get sick enough, I can just be free. And I'm starting to wonder, am I better off alone? Should I find shelter in the cold? Should I stop inviting love or giving love? Are all my answers in this bottle? When my heart stops beating, and it's finally quiet, and I can finally sleep. Maybe in solitude, I'll find peace. Maybe in dreams, I'll find release. Maybe on nights like this, I wonder if I'm better off drunk or dead.
It's not a threat, just a question with no answer. I won't ask anyone anything. I think people like me better. Quiet, useful, compliant, asking for a thank you, like pulling teeth, and all these reassurances I shouldn't bother to seek. What's mentally ill? We all take some kind of pill, or sip, or snort. I prefer mine 100 milligrams with five shots and a bloody hand from hitting walls or picking hangnails, bloodletting my fears. I'm not afraid to tear myself apart.
I'm not afraid of a torn heart. I think I'm most afraid to live, and that I have so little to give. And if we're just rust and stardust, then what becomes of us? Will someone drink me down one sad night alone, listening to old music in their kitchen, wailing into the beyond? Will someone pick me up and make a little cut, and think they've found the answer to how to feel again? Will someone find me in the woods, flesh, sinew, and bone, and take out their phone, and the picture they take becomes their great breakthrough, or just end up as someone's background on their phone? How brave.
How daring. How different. How special we must be. There is no special. There is no release. The reality much starker than a child could ever dream. And when I think I've hit the bottom, I never touch a thing. It just drops, and drops, and drops, until I hope none of me remains. Famished. I grind my teeth, awake and asleep. I hold my breath, and then sigh deep. I lose track of all the secrets I keep. I fall in line, and in love, learning nothing, repeating the same routine.
It's the grind, I guess. Repetition keeps life churning. The same sick pot I'm burning, ruined all the inside, and what I can consume is bitter. You'd think I'd learn to just starve. A Folk Song The boys can do no wrong, and the girls sing their siren songs, with forked tongues and claws waiting to just snatch them away. The devils playing fiddle outside your bedroom window, and the ghosts of woes and men's lost souls dance around the fog, shifting shadows on your wall.
I'm not one of them, but if I was, that fork of a tongue would lash out with every jab, and I'd rush out into the night for a thirt to slash in the name of your precious son, shrieking feral and nameless, my voice a cacophony against the echo chamber, resonating affirmations of absolute devotion to the man we both love. A Hard Lesson It's a sordid story, many of us share, the details vary, but the damage equals out.
They say, don't answer the door to strangers, and I didn't, I knew you. I let you in, you sat on my bed, do you know what your mouth would be good for? I didn't, actually. And after you left, I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, broke open a plastic shaving razor, and tried to remove all the parts of me you left your imprint on, at least the parts of me no one else could see.
But I only went so far. At thirteen, you don't care about scars, but they'll remind you for a while to keep your door closed. Untethered What if I just fell apart? What if I was the one who didn't show up, didn't live up to your expectations, to your needs? What if I just said no to everything, and disappeared into the earth, like re-entering the womb? What if it was me that disappoints? What if it was I who imbued a sense of fear and longing inside of you? Well, maybe I just will.
I could take too many pills. That ain't no sure way. You gotta pay to play, and I've paid enough. What if I woke up and said no, I won't get out of bed, and no, I won't do as you say? There isn't another way, only mine. Would the accusations fly? Would the admiration in your eyes just die? Would you leave me there to wither? What if I just fell apart, extinguished the spark, like the one I had inside, for such a brief time? Can I just embrace the dark? Can I just sleep, for now, forever, unravel, and untether? Too high to climb? I still think about you, not the way you'd think I would.
It isn't a bitter taste on my tongue, or a sickness spreading through, tainting every memory of you. I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt, and I never bled, but instead I lay those thoughts to bed, and cover them in swaths of happy memories, before tears were shed. I hear in whispers how you are not doing well. You sever ties between telling lies and finding comfort in bottles. I hear you've broken up. You're always drunk.
Mostly I was struck that you didn't learn or grow from anything you were shown. That you're stuck and stubborn, spinning new versions with each new person you entice and swallow each new vice. I thought to reach out, but was filled with doubt, and all the voices, real and not, that cried out, stop. Because I can't save you, or help or soothe you. You built your barriers too high, too hard for a girl of my stature to climb.
And if you don't see an issue, then why should I still miss you? I'm healing and revealing parts of me I never knew. Enjoying time with myself more than I did with you. And this work I do for me is far from over, and far more important than risking losing myself and trying to love you. Edith N. Teacups don't collect dust under glass cases, and ceramic does don't often break when safe in high places. Old photos don't see light in Christmas cookie tins, and that sewing machine hasn't left the bottom shelf in its plastic storage bin.
Kept safe and unused, and even ten years later, I never get used to losing you. In the back of a closet, or a row of your sweaters, sometimes I try to smell them, but they're just she's you wore. Over a body I felt go cold. I saw you leave that room, along with all the stories you told. Now you're preserved behind glass, framed on my wall, or in a cabinet I bought to house you in my home.
We share the same space, but your ashes don't carry weight. Ariadne's Thread. The first time my ex threw away my birth control pills and told me I lost them, I said I'd always have control, and I did, even when I didn't. It took a lot to even say, well, maybe one day. I didn't think I'd be a good mom until I was going to be, that moment, so fleeting. But this isn't the end. The card said it's true.
That spider, this morning, if there's magic at all in this world, I will sacrifice, call all the quarters, dance around every flame, for the hope to have you again. Containment. It's 4 a.m. again. Wide awake, not with the shakes. Instead I'm reeling in all I'm feeling. I never realized how many feelings I had until I couldn't numb them. But isn't the pain and anger, pure white hot, boils and pustules seeping out all over me and everyone I see, just so beautiful? Isn't life and all its flaws and chaos worth experiencing? Sometimes, yes.
And often in retrospect. Because at 4 a.m., I just want to sleep, instead of resent. But even if I added whiskey to the mix and thought I'd numbed into bliss, it's just a bandage over a seeping wound. And eventually, it would still spill out onto me and you. A specter's observations. You can save the platitudes. We're all victims here. Sometimes I wish I could close the door, turn the page, instead of lay in this mess of a bed.
Dirty sheets on sweaty legs. Cobwebs on picture frames. The mounting onslaught of work ahead. I never catch up, burdened by my own inability to decline or resign. Just pressing on in an unfamiliar land. How is it that you can feel like a stranger in your own life? Just visiting, like a ghost in the corner. Watching all of you laugh and drink and drink. The fool's remedy in times like this that I miss dearly. One step forward, but I'm lying flat.
I'm walking on eggshells. It feels more like glass. If I take a step forward, I have to move back. There's blood on the floor, and it's mine and it's yours. The difference doesn't matter anymore. If I speak truth, they're too much. Consideration is key. If I consider you, do you consider me? The scale doesn't zero out, but the pendulum certainly swings. I speak of peace to be greeted with anger. The words I say become twisted and mangled.
If you have decided I'm in for the kill, you make sure it's my blood that's spilt. There was a kid once that was scared and maybe lonely, who learned secrets are best kept and yearned to be special, to be noticed and adored. No matter our age or the difference between, is it that you just need to be seen? I see you. I'd love to love you. I'm breaking nails on the dirt. I sift through for treasure, remnants of a girl I either would have loved or would have feared.
Would it be mean whispers in hallways and cackles in bathrooms instead of tiny treasures, glimpses of leather? I just want to love you, but it comes with a price. I'm running out of coins. I've fallen out of vice. I'm running out of coins. I've fallen out of vice. The threads are snapping. I'm losing my grip, waiting for the pendulum to lure, holding my breath with each dip. Swallowed, chlorette red and tethered to you. I know blue would still be blue, but in this moment, there is nothing but you.
Hands and tongue, pricking of your thumb, an ancient incantation manifesting me in you. Drive yourself into me until I'm no longer me. I'm only you. Phantom limbs. I'm gritting my teeth again. Chip a tooth, chipped enamel, chip away, and the grinding, churning, stirring in my gut, unfurling, further tangled, enamored with the suffering. If I let it go, what could possibly be left? Vulnerable, memorable, malleable, an adjective for every visage, a myriad of messages, but under the tangle is some peace and release, some remembrances of falling asleep, feeling safe with fingernails, scratching a back naked from tattoos.
Fine X-Men sheets and pillows made to look like a child's cartoon. You had dreams for me, and I have them too, and that person is still here, under the rubble of guilt and grief and shame, all the titles I claim, but really I'm hiding under covers and false security, wiping tears on torn-up sleeves with phantom fingers trying to lull me to sleep. Let me. I never met the little boy who climbed trees, hunted spiders in the moonlight, slingshot cocked and ready, predator and prey, all the same, but I would have loved him if he'd let me.
I think he'd let me. I met a man with blue eyes, not pale but vibrant, shimmering in sadness, insecure, unsure, and lost, not enough drugs in the city to keep you happy, to make you satisfied. I could be that drug. I'd make you high. You can drink me in. If he'd let me. You let me. I look back at smoky car rides, on back roads and gas station signs, beer as cold as your ex's heart, naked and cold in creek waters, our bodies combined in front of trees like gods, on the edges of cliffs, windswept and awed, driving on coastlines, oceans in rear views, traveling endlessly just to be next to you.
If he'd let me. You let me. I wanted to be the thing that made you happy. I wanted to be your reason for settling down. I wanted to be beside you, not in front or behind. If he'd let me. And you let me. For Ryan. Redheads. I let you in again and again, trails of your hair left on my clothes, pathways to embraces and secrets that no one still knows. Does your partner see where these strands appear when the dark rolls in on chilled nights like these? Little embers of fire, a light in the fog that obscures a face you've hidden well.
Tall and strong, you've looked down on me and raised your voice, intending for me to shrink, but I can't get any smaller. I never knew how to grow until now. I never learn and I'll never learn, and why might surprise? It's somewhere in the lies. I saw a glimmer of what once was. A little girl in you who was scared and lonely, and I wanted to hold her, give her comfort and security, maybe because I'm a redhead I never loved.
Am I a redhead you ever loved? One line. Never used to pay attention to a clock ticking. Now it's an alarm going off. Never thought much about little socks and spinning mobiles, soft giggles and tiny fingers. Never wanted to spread what I am to anyone if I didn't have to, but after the blood and fluid, from two lines to one, I grieve every time that line is one, not two. Another sad song. Another day and I send you songs, but it's too late and you don't always listen to them anyway.
You say you don't pay attention to the lyrics like I do. You like it if it sounds good to you, and there doesn't always have to be a hidden meaning. I told you once I picture images from words when I daydream and lyrics become movies, some silver screen reverie, one where you wrap around me and kiss me and we pretend there's nothing to mend, no time spent on wasted words, just sad song lyrics clouding our sky.
Garbage in the water. I've got bones to pick clean, swarm of beetles devouring the meat of what you are. I'm never done, and if you think of me, I hope there's a little fear, the memories of tears, your admitted guilt, your blood runs cold when you hear my name. I don't wish ill of many men, but I hope you're damned in the underworld of your making. Will the guide at the sticks leave you blind? On a boat quaking as rapids hit the sides, oars cast to the river, and you're alone, drifting into oblivion.
Let me ask, did she cry, moan, groan, or sigh, when a grown man with children of his own made a child's bed his haven to fill his lies? When you're lost at sea, and you're shrinking, dehydrated, starving, and buzzard circle in your last few breaths, I hope you fear death, and no soulless comes to greet you, darkness waiting patiently to shroud you in its arms, and blot out, erase, everything you are. The Wedding Reception I watched over you, for maybe an hour, not two.
I didn't even know your mother's name. I knew she was drunk. I knew she grabbed your carrier, like she had forgotten her purse, something easily forgotten, a muttered thank you, while she ordered another drink. I used to order drinks, too, sometimes two or three, to avoid the lines, to get to the point of numbness that she must seek to. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to hate her. Do you know the longing other women feel for the thing you left with a stranger? But maybe she's hurting, too, and I'll never know the truth.
She seems like the type to bury it so deep, she wouldn't know it either, best left forgotten, like the baby you left with a stranger, who later cried, watching a spider make a web outside the venue. At Least Drinkin's Honest Frankly, I'm sick of the positivity, wholesome news, bored of the brave face, the go-getter attitude, tell me again how this quote will clear my head, or counting one to ten, will help me go to bed. There are people starving, crying, raping, gnawing, tearing, feeling, fighting, dying, everywhere, but it's not in my control, so let it go.
Buy new dishware, do your hair, a new palette came out, because a celebrity gave me a quote that someone else wrote, and put pretty pictures behind, of butterflies, sunsets, and flip-flops, smiling people, so that must mean, it's all okay. Be mindful, be present, take your meds, take control of what you can. Look, you were listed as a top fan, special, secure. I'll put your quote at the bottom of this bottle, and drink it, like a worm, digest it, then expel it, worthless.
It's all a joke, we've been told all our lives, but we didn't hear the final punchline. October. The words, spooky, scary, and creepy. Kids in costumes, mouths full of candy, chocolate smeared faces, pumpkins on doorsteps, cobwebs in trees, my grandma used to decorate, despite her Christianity. As a kid, it was grapes posing as eyeballs, in my twenties, it was cheap vodka and wine, in my thirties, it's about death and the veil, not lifted quite enough, to see past my grief.
I wrote a book to exercise it, so why am I sobbing, wishing I could go back, I could have you back, the child I never met, the bundle of cells, that could have been someone, something, or the grandmother, who could console me right now, if the veil wasn't so thick. October used to be, my favorite. The hope jar, is full of piss. Rainbows, are less frequent, than you'd think, I tell myself, maybe after I weather more storms, the color will return.
All colors will agree in the dark, Bacon Francis. Thank you for listening to the audio version, of Tributaries, by Alexandra Rumsey.