salt and flowers,
to the musky smell of ***** on her lips.
who was she without her drinks?

what light her glowing eyes once held
was miserably replaced with emptiness
and the subtle dread of return to reality.

her sobriety was virtually nonexistent,
that wretched glass bottle the barrier
between her conscience and the problems truly inescapable.

she drank her heart out,
as if alcohol could fill her heart
any better than love or hope,
emotions she grew numb to ages ago.

what a sad life it must be,
drinking, the only thing left to hang onto.

but the worst? –
she never admitted her addiction.
the shaking, the blackouts, the dependence
overwhelmed every beautiful thing she used to be.
yet the words,
“i need help,”
never passed her lips once.

days on end,
the world seemed to gray out,
all things sluggish, gloomy,
but only through her eyes.

i held her shaking hands,
numbness and the cold controlling,
anxiety and depression, circulating.

she craved her drinks,
no, needed them,
and fell in love with the lack of feeling.

she felt no guilt for what she did,
“just an escape,”
and she paid a heavy price
for who she chose to be.

alas –
tomorrow is another day.