Bending the Curved Edge

Intoxicated, again.
I like the way it makes me feel-

until it doesn't.

Another round, slurring the
curses of exes in the moist air,
dampening the mood, among friends
whose sobriety I find unsettling.

You understand,
until you don't.

Who I want to be is drowned
for glassy eyes, blurred lines,
and repressed cries that take
me on a treacherous drive.

I'd be sorry if I could
recount what was said.

I'd be sorry until I'm not.

I'd be sorry for poisoning
myself if I didn't like the
sound of empty bottles
and cans rolling off the table,
a graveyard for my composure
which I'll mourn until the next round-

always on me.