I’m sorry if I cry when I smell whiskey on your breath.
It’s a natural habit, you see.

All the times she kissed my forehead,
Her lips engraving the need for sobriety in my brain,
I smelled it.

In all the bruised knees and torn curtains,
The cigarette smoke and shattered glasses,
The broken doors and scratched paint,
Her dried blood and my adolescent tears,
I smelled it.

I turned my lights out so she wouldn’t know I was awake.
I’m sorry if I cry when I smell whiskey on your breath.
It’s a natural habit, you see.