sober

Dust meets the glass of the whiskey bottle,,
my soul yearns for the taste of its sweet escape,
but my body protects me from its contents,
for I can't stomach the bitterness like I used to,
even though I've never wanted to die more than I do now.

I can't bring myself to pour a glass,
even though I'd love to make my memories hazy,
faces and names and voices I'll never forget,
even though I've long since been forgotten.

I fear the monster I'd become if I finally gave in,
my only source of sustenance if I didn't know better,
drowning in a pool of my blood at the end of it,
but it's a good thing I'm smarter than that,
or that's what people think when I tell them I'm sober.

I think of all the money I could've saved if I was okay with losing you,
but I lost myself trying to keep a hold of you,
I could've saved the money I spent on the whiskey,
but the bottle keeps me company in my lonesome now, 
and I found myself when I finally accepted a life without you.