These three poems by Colleen Morrison explore loss and exclusion in their many forms: mourning a friend claimed by addiction, a lingering nostalgia for the illusion of control, and longing for inclusion among friends and peers…
by: Colleen Morrison
Aftertaste
I think of you when I see Capri-Suns—
the reflective foil pouch,
catching my eye in the store
like a mirror on the shelf.
I remember sitting on the dock,
warm planks against the backs of our thighs,
brackish water breathing up that pluff mud smell
and a slow slap of the tide against the pilings.
We would break from swimming,
salt drying in our hair and on our skin
while the air carried the thick heat
of a Lowcountry summer evening.
Eating sandwiches side by side,
Doritos stuffed between bread
and juice pouches in hand, sticky down our wrists.
You never wanted to go home.
Your house was never silent,
like the noise tried to cover something beneath it,
and if the TV was just loud enough,
then maybe it could.
Take care of yourself, I know you like trouble—
the last words you ever said to me, years later.
But I had left that life behind by then,
and I thought you had too.
Now I see the juice pouches,
Pacific Cooler printed across the front,
and I jam the straw inside
like it hurt me personally.
I see you in every reflective pouch,
every silver sleeve and cellophane straw wrapper
throwing the light back at me,
a little bit of you in i
C O N T R O L
All my life I have sought control
in anything that offered the illusion of it.
I remember how it felt:
the buzz immediate,
the clench of my jaw.
I was focused as a pinprick,
a singular straight line.
For the first time, I could think.
I could do my history homework
and the dishes.
I could be a good daughter.
I let it go by choice,
with clawmarks etched deep in every bit of it,
replacing it with books, with yoga,
with full nights of sleep.
And though I have never regretted letting it go,
sometimes, I feel the illusion of nostalgia
for that control—
and yearn.
The Spare
There is always a pair,
who find each other in the chaos.
And there is always me,
half-waiting, half-there,
watching them speak
in a language I never learned.
I hover at the edges
of every photograph,
leaning in just slightly,
crooked smile, trying so hard
to match the others.
I think if I pretend well enough,
they will absorb me into them—
like I am a necessity
and not a backup.
The third is no one’s first choice.
We sit in middle seats,
laugh a little louder at the jokes,
hold the camera
so someone else’s moment can be remembered.
We are easily tolerated,
kept around for emergencies
that never come.
I’ve learned to bend,
to pull myself in like a paper crane,
pressed flat by my own hands,
nails dragged against creases, to make myself fit better.
Perhaps if I can twist enough,
if I can shrink enough,
they will find a place for me
within their tight-knit affection.
Now, I’m older.
Sometimes, I think I’ve found myself,
but then I am back on the outskirts.
I hold my breath,
bite back the stinging in my eyes,
slip into the cracks
between their lives,
a place where I’ll be there
when they need me.
There is a name for a wheel
that isn’t needed.
It’s called the spare—
tucked away in a trunk,
forgotten,
until something break
With a B.A. in English and Creative Writing, Colleen Morrison is passionate about crafting stories and poems that explore the darker parts of the world and the sometimes dull horrors of day-to-day life. When she is not making questionable Google searches for research, you can find her hiking the Blue Ridge Mountains with her family, reading, or gathering inspiration for her next project. She has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Khaotic Good, Five Minute Lit, Please See Me Literary Magazine, HeartWood Literary Magazine, Progenitor Art and Literary Journal, and narrated on CreepyPod. She can be found on IG, Threads, and Bluesky at yagirlcolleen.
