Poetry by Rachel Goodman

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Ryan Adams says to be young (is to be sad),

but I think being young
is a codependence of 
anger, thirst, horniness, and headaches. 
An alarm blows
in my ear, 
my dog licks my cheek, and 
I stay sunken 
in bed, stapled 
to my sheets. I forgot to take 
my contacts out last night, 
and so, the tears that drip 
on my pillow are tinted
by blood, mascara, and that blue eyeliner 
I thought would make my eyes pop. 
To be young
may be a state 
of sleep deprivation, or
sleeping for sixteen hours 
straight. 
I forgot to feed my dog last night. 
Who said I was responsible 
enough to take care of two 
(maybe more)
beating hearts?
My friends are my babies. I hide
them in my purse 
next to a bottle of Tylenol. 
I only take them out 
in dive-bar bathrooms, where 
they hold back my hair 
as I vomit,
and scratch my back underneath my shirt. 
Being young 
is chasing, but never grasping,
perfection, ideals, good books, 
and better head. 
Being young is sitting 
on a toilet, 
wobbling, 
blubbering, 
and knowing one day you may 
miss this filthy chaos. 





A Reduction Plan Is Not Recovery

My father’s a starman 
and my mom’s a saint; 
too bad their tot blossomed 
into a punk stealing 
klonopin and throwing 

up Fireball on their 
back porch. Forgiveness 
doesn’t alleviate shame. 
Neither does weed or sex. 
I’m not an alcoholic. 

Why is perfect an 
adjective used every day 
if that ideal can never be 
attained? Probably a man’s 
suggestion. My mom 

wishes I would get baptized, 
or take a bath with Epsom salts 
and lavender essential oil, 
but no amount of water 
could save me. I need that 

hard stuff. I lay, face up, 
on the bathroom floor. I let 
my hair fall in the tub and 
Jessica pours vodka over 
the top of my head, protecting 

my eyes with her hand. 
Afterwards, we clean the 
drain and find mass amounts 
of hair, Humbert’s fingers and 
toes, dried vomit, black nail polish, 

dog food, and a gallon of 
bloody tears. The drain pulsates 
with the sound of a voice, 
Leave it all behind child. 
You’re mine now. I turn around, 

abandon my apartment, and walk into the sunset. 




​
The Ideal Whatever

“A woman who can keep a man’s love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them.” 
Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband 

“I spend my money getting drunk and high …wouldn’t I make the ideal husband?” 
Father John Misty, “Ideal Husband”

Fuck your ideology. 
This is not a confessionary. 
I regret nothing. 

Men always tell me 
I am not enough. 
Or maybe I 

superimpose this 
label onto my-
self. Maybe I’m not. 

The first girl I kissed
spent the rest of the 
party with her boyfriend.

I’m a woman and 
a perfectionist. 
This explains why I’m 

trying to lose thirty 
pounds, why my vagina 
is always in 

pristine condition, 
and why the sheets near 
the end of my bed 

are covered in blood 
and tears of self-loathing. 
Don’t lick that! I yell 

at the dog. I have 
cried over a B+. 
I have scars up my 

arm. I weigh myself every 
morning. I walk through 
campus high and 

talking to myself. 
I was born the day 
Jeff Buckley’s body 

was found. I listen 
to Lua on my 
parents’ patio 

at 4 am with 
a wine cooler in 
my hand. My ex hit 

my dog and I let 
him. My ex called me 
a cunt and I let 

him. My ex fucked his 
co-worker and I 
let him. I used to 

drink until I threw 
up. Now I word vomit 
to avoid the taste of 

bile. I don’t call my 
brother enough. I 
should quit drinking. I 

am no ideal anything, 
but neither is 
anyone else.
​


Rachel Goodman is from Nashville, TN. She is currently a senior at DePaul University studying Creative Writing and Psychology.