for as long as i can remember,
the image of you sitting there with a bottle of alcohol at your lips,
almost glued there,
will forever be etched in my mind.

each drink out of that bottle is a sharp knife,
the  blade chipping away your soul,
piece by piece,
drink by drink.

at this point,
i have to wonder if there is any part of your soul left,
do you recognise me?