A Monday Sip

Alcohol is bitter, much like her laughter at my expense. Drinking is calming, in the sense of a hug that was never spent. The dizziness of the room spinning feels like my head is finally unreeling. The sickness to my stomach is nothing more than the butterflies that were never given the opportunity to live. Nauseous, waiting, spending my days contemplating. Is she alive or dead? The bottle knows the end. Look at her face on the poster. Sit by the phone on the roaster. It doesn't make sense, unless I have a jug in my hand. Stop. it's okay. Dream. She's here to stay. Feel. The words he never says. Please. Please just walk away. Just walk away. Sadly, I'm here to stay. Waiting for the next downfall. Preying on your little flaws. You can run, you can hide, but I'll catch you with time. Stop. It's okay. Dream. You can't walk away.