I’m not an alcoholic
I’ve got a hole in the center of my chest
that looks like a glass without a base.
I’ve got demons buried under a pile of stakes
and I stand guard with a bottle full of holy water that tastes a lot like vodka.
Some people would say I have a problem,
but, I’m not an alcoholic.
My father was and I am nothing like him.
I would never raise my hand to a woman or cop out of raising a child
for the sake of a better time
that will not be redeemed in twelve steps
or 10 years.
I don’t need some self induced idealism
to help me deal with the facts of life,
like the one where your glass stays half empty after every refill.
I know the whole world is full of shit
and it happens to good people
but, we’ve all got to live.
So, just sign in at the front desk,
wrap your palm around the way it starts out,
filled at the rim and sip slowly to the red line.
When you turn your hand and spot the varicose veins,
They’ll say you’ve had your dose of reality,
please come again.
You see, it’s an option until it becomes a reflex.
After a few shots, it becomes a process, like grief
Where I feel stuck in a stage like an actor that has been cast for the lead
without ever being asked to play.
The taste of liquor on my tongue stings and burns the roof of my mouth
like a door handle holding back a fire.
Like sucking on a candy atomic ball, before long, you cannot help but bite down
and swallow.
It moves on and swelters my insides like the sun from pavement to bare feet.
Sometimes it feels like it will never stop, when I put my hand to my face
expecting some damp release only to realize
I’m not crying in a place that can be reached.
I’ll catch myself not breathing and find my stomach tied in knots,
without a way to explain the tension
that people read all over me
before I can fold the page into a smile.
I tend to underestimate the perception’s
formed just because they focus on my silence
as a choice instead of questioning what could it have taken
to make that kind of quiet?
But when people are so arrogant, to let them lie
like dogs sleeping is easier than any attempt of waking.
I pause to acknowledge the thought as I run my hand through my hair
then proceed to stir my drink with a butter knife.
I’m not an alcoholic, I have control.
I don’t need twelve steps when I can make it to my refrigerator in six.
I’m not running from anything.
I’ve been sitting here for hours, mulling over my next swig.
Sometimes I have a little trouble sleeping and I worry so much, about everything
hat I can’t stop thinking, until I am somber and have swallowed
that emotional kill switch.
You see, I’ve finally found an enduring relationship and you all are just jealous.
I have something to fall back on, something that was my only friend
when I went to a very dark place in my head.
I was desolate and could only reach out for a nightcap or two or three or four
when I wanted to peel back my skin just to derail the questions,
when I wanted to scream myself hoarse just to be heard.
I opted for the deterioration plodding towards my brain cells
because it was the most accessible weapon
and it will be years before anyone can see how much it has been used.
Still, it’s not an addiction because I am in control.
It’s not a disease because I am not ailing, from a medical perspective.
I cannot be written some illegible prescription from any superhuman
with a framed certificate or Ph.D. prefixed to his name
and welded into his license plate.
No, what I have is all I need, a dark room and a tall drink.
So, don’t you worry about me.
I don’t have a problem, I have alternative therapy
and I’m in the middle of a session
so, you’ll have to excuse me.
