if you drink enough ***** it tastes like

regret

like all the nights you spent bent over the bathroom sink
tears running down your face when you can’t seem to catch your breath

like rust and blood and bile in the back of your throat
razors on the counter and a half cocked gun in your hand

like not sleeping because you’re too busy screaming at the sky
begging the moon to bring her back

like breaking bones on promises like “forever”
tearing open your chest searching for some part of you she might’ve left
but finding nothing

if you drink enough ***** it will not taste like love
and it certainly will not taste like her