Evening Scotch

Once, maybe twice a week;
you go down to the local supermarket.
You stroll down the aisles,
looking for nothing in particular.

You have a list of groceries to buy,
but you know you’re not gonna buy any of them.
You’re in the alcohol aisle,
deciding between whiskey and rum.

You hate whiskey.
But you had rum last week, and the week before that.
You consider buying something else,
but you’re too scared to try something new.

A bottle of whiskey and a take away pizza fills your passengers’ seat.
You laugh at how silly it looks.
You accidentally mix up your car key and your house key.
It happens again when you try to open your front door.

You set the bottle of whiskey down on the kitchen counter.
Your face stares back at you in the golden scotch.
You look, different, dejected.
You hate it.

You crack open the bottle of spirits.
You have glass after glass,
Your head hurts, but you refuse to accept it,
you try to stand up, the world spins around you;

and then it all comes crashing down.
Face flat on the floor, empty bottle in hand.
You don’t even bother trying to stand.
The floor is cold, it feels nice.

Tears form in the corner of your eyes,
you’re not okay,
you’ve made mistakes,
you have regrets,
you hate yourself for beings things you never wanted to be,
and you hate yourself for not being things that you want to be.
You’re human, you have flaws.
You know that.

You know that better than anyone.


You see your reflection on the empty bottle.

A stranger stares back at you.

Your head hurts, the world is spinning,

and you hate it.

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