Addiction has its hooks catching
at my pre-frontal cortex.
Fishing wires are attached to the hooks.
I’m snagged like a fish.
Dexterous fisherman hands reel me in closer
to the mahogany door of my bedside cabinet
where I stow Liquor Outlet *****.
I’m choking on each hollow breath
that whistles down my chimney throat.
My thoughts need to be bubble-wrapped
and stored in vintage chests at the foot of the bed.
Maybe I’m too eager to forget.
Maybe I’m too weak to resist.
All I want is some peace of mind
from the phantoms haunting my head.
I unscrew the bottle to drown them out
until spirits flood my bloodstream.