It’s December 2025. I want to tell Jelly Roll
it was me who sopped up the final hangover,
stuffed the empties deep into the trash, saved me
from myself. Leaned against 90s peachy pink laminate,
through earbuds I hear her say: No one is coming.
No one is coming to offload the explosive charge,
to eat the bitter bread, flatten my pain into a slogan.
Let them—not arrive. The ones who aren’t coming
to help this girl wash bile from her face, apply Olay.
Regeneration begins alone, waiting for no one,
still singing: Somebody, anybody, save me from myself.
