I am a writer who hates whiskey.

I feel that I should love it like a writer's only friend,
Like I should sip it from a glass while I scribe with broken pens,
Like I should clink the ice against the sides and swirl it, deep in thought,
And take it neat and raw, in admiration of its steely course.
It should lubricate the mind and guide the flow of words to page,
And since a nervous age I've yearned to say I love the way it burns and maims,
And maybe on a certain day, I'll glug it without choking, breathless,
But for now it hurts my brain to even think about its... smokey wetness.

I've idolized an archetype, a writer with a harmful life,
Sit alone in bars at night, lament the fact that art is strife,
But recently I'm thinking more, and honestly, this can't be right,
I love the pen and paper, and I love the fact it's hard to write.
It's the way that I've romanticized it, fantasized and glamorized it,
Like I could just forget about a novel, let Jack Daniel's write it,
While I sat and focused on my magnum opus, penning parts of it in prose,
I viewed my present like it's hindsight, through glasses tinted rose.

You remind me of kissed lips and simple bliss,
Winter fingertips, things from my Christmas lists,
You remind me of nights when we'd drive in the rain,
Sat beside me, when I'm trying to keep my eyes on the lane,
You remind me of those late night conversations,
Those odd occasions, when no one even bothers faking,
Steam rising from your coffee turns to condensation,
Fogs your glasses, but somehow, you tolerate it.
You remind me of January 2nd,
Split-second, it had to be legend, you had me enraptured,
Trapped and captured, inside your amber gaze,
Prisoner of love, but no, I never planned escape,
Or planned to stray, you'd catch me anyway,
You're so much smarter than me, I'd never get away,
You remind me that I'm missing a couple of shirts,
But when I see you in it, I'll give up what it's worth.

Pretty boy, singing your pretty words:
pouring liquid symphonies into my ear,
knowing exactly what I want to hear.

Stolen words, from a romance guide;
pried from the heart of your previous lover,
and some two, three, four or maybe five girls other.

Cooing sweet nothings in your honey voice.
It is not enough, a mating ritual parade,
because I’ve been there before and I know your charade.

Don’t you understand? - what you did to me.
Demon possessed or a facade dropped,
the memory: the pain, the anxiety, the shock.

What you want is untouched, an untampered babe.
Yet again, you devote your concert to me,
but I don’t want it and you don’t really want me.

I am stitched back together, corrupt by your hand.
Your photocopied scars adjourn my skin,
but the ink seeped deeper, obscuring your sin.

And you’ll never understand, what you did to me:
because you’re still a pretty boy, with your pretty words
and I'll deal with the trauma, my story unheard.

I guess at my best I'm just gluttony and greed,
The rest is a mess, come and punish me and see,
I'm worse than the dirt in the gutter in the streets,
It hurts but my worth is a puddle to the sea,
I'm stuffed in a husk, and I'm struggling to breathe,
But enough is enough, I'm encouraging defeat,
I'll rise to the skies like the nourishment of seeds,
And abide all the cries, I am lucky just to be.

Let's get it back like nothing happened and return to normal,
Nice while it lasted but the way that this has turned is awful,
Friends with benefits? This is the end of it,
We should've never kissed, it's best we just forget this ****,
I don't wanna be strangers, giving ****** favours,
That'd probably fail I've just gotta honour the changes,
That you made me make, because they made me great,
It was the games we played that swayed me babe,
No one's ready with a friend and a plan at birth,
But we've got each other so I wanna put my hand in hers,
Just platonically honestly, I promise, it's gotta be,
Let's get high as **** and binge watch Planet Earth.