i wrote you a letter last night
i was DRUNK
as i usually am at...                               2a.m. these days.

i don’t regret
empty bottles that were full
           when i had u           self-medication is
                 self-preservation
no chaser, no chaser.
click, sip, swallow
click, sip, swallow
click, chug, sip, chug, addiction kills identity

→ whoamiwithoutyou;←

SWALLOW. so then i wrote you
a letter…. last night…?

was it last night?

no chaser, no chaser.
click chug swallow.
chug swallow chug swallow. i’m filled with POISON
and i am drunk
like i usually am at

                 10a.m these days.
demonic awareness,
claws at my back
i see it all so clearly

and you… YOU
you, you’re a match

you’re the ******* match and my love lit you up and you burned me straight to the ground and i. sip chug sip chug swallow chug no chaser just the burnt taste of dad’s $100 bottle of mezcal and i sip, chug                          chug                               ­                         can’t believe we’re dead.


BLACKOUT.
wake up
            pencil scratches;  liquid diet.
love, victoria.

You speak in bullets
You distill liquor from love
and yet I'm lost in you

You are my poisoned apple
You are glass flooring below me

because it's more tormenting when you
can see what lies beneath.

After last year, I've conditioned myself to crave the comforting embrace of the bottle whenever I find myself in a state of emotional dissonance. And here I find myself, praying for the sting of liquor to somehow find its way to me, and force its toxicity down my throat. And it's 3:17pm on a Wednesday.

For some reason, the normality of this craving never ceases to surprise me.

Self medication.... self preservation.
To me, they are one in the same.

Without the slippery release of the devil's liquid, I'm afraid to consider who or what I would have become by now.

And it's so psychologically draining,
because ever since last year, I've never felt more weak, more imprisoned, more dazed, in my life.

My dependence makes me weak,
My weakness imprisons me,
My imprisonment dazes me,
And in my laziness,
All I know to do is drink.

I've conditioned myself to drink my dissonance away.

It hasn't worked yet,
but I'm not sure I'll ever stop trying.

Lately
We don't know how to love
without a war

We are most passionate
on the battlefield

We speak in bullets
and every argument
becomes an explosion

I walk in a barren field
passing soldiers of our past
laying
burning
dying

I watch the corpses of my happiness
turn to ash

I watch us destroy the "we"
we worked so **** hard
to create.

I thought home was a construction
A state of mind
That could be built anywhere.
Anywhere that had a bed
and a sense of belonging.
I thought that'd be enough.

3 months later
3,000 miles away
I realized
Home isn't something that can be created
Home is something you have to find
Something you have to feel.

I feel most at home
with your touch.

I collect memories
Distill them to the letter
And barrel them for aging
Only to later get drunk
Off last life's nostalgia...

My family;
The sweet taste of white wine
I swirl their image around my head
And sip on it every now and then

My friends;
Shots of fireball
Shockingly spicy, yet sickeningly sweet
The liquid trickles down my throat.
Cuddly warmth

My love;
White girl wasted off your rosé
The color reminiscent of the flush of my cheeks,
As bubbly as my disposition
A mix of two "goods" that make a "great".
I can't wait to taste you again