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.
