“You can be a real ******* sometimes, you know that?”
Her voice rings in my ears
Like bells on Sunday mornings.
I just wish she would say something new.

But she won’t.

Because I don’t ever do anything new.

The door slams behind her.
The bottle goes up.
The alcohol goes down
And another bottle hits the wall.
I call out softly, to the ghost of her presence,

“I’m always a real *******.”
Another bottle goes up.