Terrible, treacherous
Odor of past,
Clings to my shadow
And follows me fast.

Follows me fast so
Swift I must run.
But running, I slip
On a puddle of ***.

Puddles of ***?
It should've been whiskey.
The flavor of risk
Does more than just fit me.

I slip and I slide
And glide with a pain,
A pain now acquainted
With alcohol stains.

Alcohol stains don't
Pester me much.
The color of bleach
Delivers a rush.

So faint and so white.
And coating my throat.
Not reaching my blood
Since I always choke.

Wrists are abused with
Tools in the shed.
Nothing to lose,
I be playing with death.