Drunk on Oblivion

Every week I say no, the stink of alcohol filling the halls of my home, and my head blurry with faded pictures of friends I can't even name.  

They linger in my room, like dust moats, but just like every person before them, they don't know me, and will forget me by the time the sun kisses the dawn. They are blurry shadows in the echoes of my mind. 

Faces forgotten.

Every morning I awake, dark eyes and downturned lips greet me in the mirror. I tape them up to fake a smile and can barely recognize myself beyond the mask I have crafted. I wait for someone to pull at the bow keeping it together, but no one ever does.

No one ever will.

Every week I pray for solidarity, but each time the bottle touches my lips, I lose myself in the oblivion.

Numb to reality, grasping the superficial affections around me, ignoring the voices telling me it will all be gone in the morning, because in those faded hours I am warm.

Each morning, hands surround me, hands without faces and voices which cut against my throat, which disappear with the strike of the clock. They drag a piece of me as they leave, and the wound leaves tear stains across my comforter.

I can't help but know that something is gone inside me, I can never get it back.

I am alone, and cold and waiting for the punch line, because life is a cruel joke and I've still yet to hear the end of it. 

When the bottle touches my lips, I can almost see the light beyond the darkness, but sobriety helps me realize its simply the streetlight at the end of the street. 

Each week I say no, but nights are lonely, and life is bitter on the back of my tongue. I go through each day grasping for an anchor point in the stormy sea of life, but everytime I land, the sand falls from beneath my feet and I am lost. 

Each day pieces me apart like I am a cake and God is the Birthday boy, cutting away at me until there is little left to spare. 

Each week I say no, I wake with good intentions, my hands blistered but wrapped in bandage, my eyes bright with a fresh confident drive.

But the days always last too long.