Junk Drawer 

Caleb Hipple 

We sit around my lack of medication 

and a bonfire begging to be pissed 

out. Can’t even prop my feet, my decision— 

the desire for warmth somehow a discussion. 

I ignore how my parents dismiss


change, unless it’s in a foot. 

The fabric sky pinholes over 

as I leave, long enough to visit 

their kitchen to investigate 

where the wine corkscrew is, CBD tinctures,


pill cups, the ongoing KidsPeace bills— 

my younger self earned us a diagnosis: depression 

in a psych ward, and the anxiety is general. 

Back then, my parents fed me steak with a pill 

and the two frothed like nuclear fission 

from me to the toilet. What’s a choice 

without options, sour as vomit? 

I’ll flush my mind and eyes and voice, 

and clarity ever-fleeting will be my sole vice, 

I’ll live kneeling and submit


to a decade defined 

by adverse head and stomach motions. 

Drawer closed, back outside, I recline 

to watch them watch the outline 

of my foot grazing the fire of undoctored revelation. 

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