Rusty nails in carpeted corners,
A curiosity in my child mind. I’d pick them up and i could smell the metal on tiny hands.
The pale clouds of my palms grabbing onto centuries of men building shelters,
But all I see is my father with his oiled hands
Around my shoulders,
A tiny shiver of shelter running down my spine,
And the fear…
I stopped drinking because I didn't want to die of sadness.
But the sadness is still there, although a bit duller and muted. It doesn't have sloppy tears, slurred poetry or a hangover, but it's still there.
I thought the drinking was the reason I felt I was on the edge of breaking. I thought drinking was the reason for my sadness beginning to feel…