Memory is a tenuous thing
At times it is lost, like a leaf in the wind
Other times it grips so tight
That my breath is short and my head is light

The bottle in your hand reminds me we're here,
spilling out dusty images and intricate fear
often hidden away behind closed doors.
Through the neck of that bottle escapes some more
of your hate to seep into my skin, once again

Mama, your vice may keep you safe;
the pain dissolves by hiding your face.
With your eyes closed, break the glass
and slit your throat to forget the past