TO THE YOUNG MAN CRYING IN A BACKSTAGE DRESSING ROOM Isabelle Hutchinson After Kim Addonizio
Under hot white lights lining the ceiling, and condemning, ever-present mirrors, you sit across from your reflection. Hand poised, just barely touching your bottom lip, swelling like a rosebud. Maybe it’s because last night you lay with a man hoping to find your salvation, only to find empty, strangling sheets and in the wreckage he left, you read your horoscope from a dimming phone with a battery of 15% and for the thousandth time wonder why you’re a Taurus when you feel like a Capricorn. Good things are coming your way. But, you are losing faith in the stars. Because, each day, you wake to an unmended hole in the cavern of your chest as you watch your dreams grow stale. Is that why you throw back shots, suck on paper laced with acid, or kiss strangers?
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