I used to drink a lot in the afternoons
when my breathing was both too shallow and too deep,
when the house was empty and my radio was breaking
and the song kept etching itself onto my skin,
when I’m alone and lonely and filled with ennui
and I’m nothing but broken strings
that pricked my love when she tried to strum me,
when I’m wishing for something
a little less than sleep but more than death
and I’m waiting for my blood
to be as hot as the brandy caressing my throat.