It takes two shots—
one tequila,
one Ficken.
Then we top it with a Radler,
to radicalize our sorrows.
Some Hennessy—
to pacify the heart.
They’ll petrify me with names:
alcoholic.
lost.
weak.
But it’s only one sip—
repeated rhyme.
A broken glass
feels the pain of a shuttered window.
For some, it’s fun.
For some, it’s a recurring illness.
But when you see me
high-ed up—
it’s not the buzz I’m chasing.
It’s the memories
I’m erasing.
They say it might be the cure—
but you
are the diagnosis.
And when you turn me away,
you don’t save me—
you guide me to the grave.
How long
do others drive us insane
and still call it concern?
Sometimes music
is the antidote,
when the poison
is self-inflicted.
The pain ruffles—
like memories,
like distractions.
And two shots
won’t shoot the rival.
The eye
is the secret beholder—
staring
until it shatters,
like broken glasses
on a floor
that remembers
every fall.