The bottles of alcohol are lining the surfaces in my too hot of a bedroom. They’re cluttered together, taking up more space than I’d like. You’d think I have a problem with alcohol, but the truth is rather I have not enough of a problem with it. It sits and ages and I forget about it until I dust them off- just for the hell of it. Tonight I am staring at them, they’re like a little city of bottles. Skyscrapers of different heights, threatening to fall down whenever the earth decides to shake. They’ll break and burn and remind me of the waste I let them become.

Perhaps I should have a sip or drink every ounce. It wouldn’t kill me, but even if it did, there’s no sorrow in that. They could be the possible cure for all of my ailments; perhaps they could erase all of those cracks left upon my beating, bloody heart. Instead of opening up a bottle, I continue to stare them down. As if they would simply evaporate into the air if I look long enough. Instead of using the deadly liquid as a method to forget everything that makes me ache, I sit and think of all those things I hope to forget, without taking the opportunity to see if enough sips and gulps would help.

Perhaps someday I will be like these little bottles, towered together with my own kind, waiting for the wind to come and blow me away. Waiting to fall at the first excuse of a shake I can get. Maybe I will sit here and my life will whither away before my own eyes. These bottles are reminders of everything I never wanted to remember. Perhaps I, too, will improve with age. Perhaps I, too, will waste away on someone’s shelf. Perhaps I should take a sip to that. Perhaps not.

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