My preteen years were
filled with white zinfandel
dreams and a collage
of wood panelling.

Broken thoughts become
ninety proof lies; drink-
don't think.

Diet Coke cans filled
with wine, hiding from
myself but mostly from
my grandmother

I wanted to conceal my
role as the family ****-up
for as long as possible
but then
I hit a wall.

Drinking is a constant love affair,
I keep coming back like a battered wife
because I can't get a grip on my
battered life.

Living for the burn
that spread its legs all
the way down my throat.

You're going to die, they say.
Maybe one day,
I'll believe them.