It always comes back
to the bottle. The life-blood
that feeds my broken and sweaty—
poetic self. Veins pulsing with last night’s
gin—and a bit of this morning’s bile.
It brings me to life when the night comes,
defeats the curse of stressful living—my entrance fee
into the cult of devastating personality.
The world spins when I am no longer moving,
and I smile more in a night than I do in a year’s
worth of cancerous days.
When the light crawls through
the cracks in the thick black curtains
it always brings with it a reminder
that last night’s illusion has once
again dissipated with the poison
Leaving only shaking hands
and a headache that aspirin