Neon Wreckage By Heather Kays

The first sip is always the best.

Cold beer kissing the back of my throat,

whiskey following close behind,

a slow burn that reminds me I’m still here.

Neon flickers against the bar top,

stray voltage buzzing in the air,

signs promising Open Late

As if the night doesn’t already have its hands on me.

As if I don’t already taste the regret between sips.

As if last call isn’t just another kind of beginning.

I’ve seen this wreckage before.

Dead reckoning through the static,

drowning in jukebox confessions,

sharing war stories with strangers

who’ve all made the same bad choices,

just with different names.

It’s easy to lose yourself here.

Easier to let go.

To be alone, together.

To talk if you want,

or disappear into the music.

To dance if you feel like it,

or just melt into the barstool

until the room tilts just right.

I don’t live here anymore.

Don’t chase the sunrise with shaky hands

or count my regrets in empty glasses.

But sometimes, I come back.

Let loose.

Blow off the dust.

Drink just enough to feel the fire,

to remember the wreckage,

and to leave before I become it again.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.