The poison stings as it hurls and flings its sharp jagged wings
against my throat.
I am not hesitant as I press the firm lips of the bottle against mine for a long cold kiss,
knowing it only gets easier after the first pull,
knowing that it will probably all be gone before tomorrow.
They call me weak.
They say I'm addicted, I've lost control, that I'm a wreck.
I'm a wreck, and they watch me weep, week after week,
until my reputation reeks of this recreation
and they call it weakness.
But to me, this liquid is strength,
The rush radiates in me a threatening power,
engulfing every ounce of my fragility.
Is it weak to seek out strength?
The liquid burns as it froths and churns and settles into the cistern
that is my chest.
This liquid fire scorches through my body,
leaving me to stagger, and lean,
and eventually capsize, like a tiny ship
swallowed up by a ravenous sea.
But as my body breaks down into bits
that scatter across your living room floor,
my mind has managed to put itself back together.
No longer afraid to admit to myself
that I felt like I belonged here somehow,
No longer afraid to spit the words out,
To stop holding it hidden inside and just let you know.
Here. I hand you my heart on a silver platter.
It's so easy to do right now.
Alcohol is my cover, it is my security blanket,
it lets me say what I need to say without taking responsibility,
it lets me reveal myself without the risk of rejection.
Because, "Hey, I was drunk. I didn't mean it."
And let's be honest,
You probably thought, "She's not herself right now."
That those weren't my words, or my thoughts, or my feelings.
You probably thought it was 'just the ***** talking,'
and honestly, that's probably what I was hoping for.
So yeah, call me weak.
It's true, it's easy to see.
But as for protecting myself from you,
until you've proven you're not deserving
of my being wary, cautious, conserving,
don't you dare ******* judge me.