...and the Bottle Makes Three

Hmmm sweet bourbon, liquid warmth, deliverer of divine remembrance, time machine of the gods, blessed spirit of regret, fortifier of will and thief of reason. How pleasant your burn. How sacred your gift. Remove the part of me that thinks, that feels, that hurts, and give me just the hum. Smooth out the hard edges and make me pleasant. Make me handsome in my own eye, clever in my own mind, and stupid to everyone else. Sweet bourbon, full of grace, Amen.

—

I enjoy the night. Not the 10pm night, that barely qualifies. I enjoy the 3am night, the deep dark night, the sacred night where you can shed your pretenses and wants and expectations and worries. The bills you have to pay? That’s a day problem. The orders you have to place? Day problem. The people you HAVE to smile at, the asses you have to kiss, the bosses, the managers, the supervisors... day problems.

—

I keep running my tongue over my teeth, slick with drink and spittle. No more. No more waiting and hoping, no more caring. I resign her to the place of my heart reserved for disappointing prospects. She's damaged goods...but damn fine damaged goods. No matter. A man can't compete with a ghost, especially one with a pulse. It's always the same, he shows up, a dream from her past, the only man to walk away with a piece of her heart. He's got a smile, an ugly one, but special to her. It holds promises, secrets, kisses; it holds history...she can't resist. He shows up in time to make a mess of her life and then disappears again, taking a little more with him.

I end up sitting in desperate loneliness, waiting for a message that never comes; because of the ghost, because she can't say no, because...well...just because. She has her ghost and I have my drink, and I have the shadows, and the darkness. They'll never disappoint. Always there for me, at the end of every broken hope, when the sun dips down, I'll always have the dark.

---

Each bitter sip brings me further from the truth. Wrapped in alcoholic warmth; I lean into the shadows and wait for memories to come. They never fail me, or maybe they fail me all the time, I can’t be sure anymore. They always assume the ethereal visage of a ghostly lover. Another sip and one moves from the pack, smooth ivory skin glowing softly in the darkness of my mind. She’s beautiful; she’ll always be beautiful, I can’t remember her any other way. She smiles as she slinks across inky blackness, a feral, seductive grin filled with malice and promise. “I’m sorry,” I murmur through numbed lips but “I’m sorry” wasn’t enough then and it isn’t enough now. I know the ache her touch brings because I put it in her. I put it there years ago and now…now I can’t imagine her without it.

She reaches out to me and I can’t help but shake my head, both in the shadowed embrace of my living room and in the velvet confines of my mind. I don’t think I can stand another caress because it seems so real. I can feel her fingertips pressing into my chest and sliding slowly up and along my neck until she cups my face in her hand. I nuzzle it like a child but keep my eyes squeezed shut so I don’t have to look at her face as it draws close to me. I know what’s coming, it always hurts the most, but before her soft lips can touch mine she dissolves into smoke and I’m left alone, again, in my living room with an empty glass.

It’s so easy to fall into an alcoholic embrace. Too easy. There it sits, a temporary answer to all of your woes, all of your insecurities and doubts. With each tender sip, or burly swig, the pain, the anxiety, the doubt and insecurities just melt away and when you’ve reached that moment, the last dewy drop, you’re as beautiful and as confident and as strong as they are.

It’s all fake...you know it’s all fake. You know it the first moment it touches your lips and you certainly know it the morning after when everything is ugly and dull and the pain strikes you like a fist. That won’t stop you from doing it again though.

You’d rather be fake than lonely.

---

I hate having the pain and the sorrow and the anxiety in the first place. I hate the doubt and worry that’s been placed in me from years of loneliness and disappointment. I hate it so much. I don’t want to hurt anymore, I don’t want the jealousy and rage and doubt. I’m sick of the worry and the fear... it gnaws at me, it chews me up and swallows me one tiny mouthful at a time until I’m fully consumed and shivering in the dark.

---

I’m so tired.

I’m surrounded in shadows and sheets, I can feel sleep banging on my mind but I need to get this out while I can. I’m tired of everything. No one knows. No one sees the rot that eats me from the inside out. I’m not good enough, I’m never good enough for anything or anyone and instead of seeing all that I’ve done all I can see is all that I lack. I can see every hurt, every sorrow, every ounce of poison that I’ve placed in others. That’s what I do, I poison people. I carry so much hate inside of me and I can’t help but place a little bit in everyone I meet.

I’m tired.

I’m coming, sleep. Be patient...just give me another moment before you take me...

---

It's on nights like these, where the wind howls and icy rain beats against the windows, that I miss her most. The apartment fills with memories, each room holds a piece of her, a scene plays over and over again. I sip my drink and sit on the end of the couch, where I always used to sit when she was here. Glancing to my right I see her, pale and ghostly in the dark; she lays curled under the blanket, staring at the TV until she notices me watching her. Her soft eyes meet mine and she smiles and it fills me with warmth. I reach a hand out to stroke her leg and she turns to smoke under my touch.

I want a drink. I want to focus on my glass; the ice, the color, the taste, the warmth as it spreads through me. The fuzziness that grows on my brain like a rotten peach. It's so simple and pleasant.

---

Sometimes I wish I were terrifying, with yellow teeth and fetid breath, and wild eyes that say, "I probably won't kill you...but I might." I feel like that would be satisfying.

---

I guess I've always known where I'll end up, I just wasn't sure if I'd be going alone. Every sip, every kiss, every touch put me one step further along the path. I thought perhaps that I would be walking it with someone. Even if we end up apart in the end, at least I wouldn't have to make the journey alone. I should have known better. Of course I would walk it alone. Why did I think it would be any different? But here I am, taking every burning step by myself, her words echoing in my mind,

"Don't go to Hell without me, you'll only be disappointed."