General Poetry posted April 19, 2017

This work has reached the exceptional level
Drunk on love; drunk on life


by SweetStreet00

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
The first few went down easy.
His hand wrapped tenderly around yours.
Your pace begins to quicken.
He brings you in for a kiss.
"This is amazing," you say, slamming down another shot.
"This is amazing," you say, pulling him closer into you.
You were drowning in emptiness.
You were drowning in pleasure.
But it was never meant to last.

The world began to melt away.
You began to melt into his touch.
You would wake up sore and visit the bar again.
You would wake up sore and visit him again.
But the weekly binges were becoming nightly.
His touch grew aggressive and passionate.
"You're my bitch," says the glass and you laugh.
"You're my bitch," says he and you smile.
The emptiness swallowed your sorrow.
Pain and pleasure merged into one.
What happened next was out of your control.

The headache worsened every morning.
New bruises were forming on your body.
It was worth it to forget for a night.
It was worth it to feel good for a night.
The bar became a home to you.
He became a home to you.
But every home is broken.

Crack! Glass pierces your shaking hand.
Smack! Blood pours down your nose.
You must've gripped the drink too hard.
You must've upset him somehow.
"You're my bitch," says the broken bottle and you agree.
"You're my bitch," says he and you cry.
You stumble home, alcohol clouding your vision.
You stumble home, tears spilling from your eyes.
Every bottle you own goes out the window.
Every picture of you two is ripped to shreds.
It's time to move on.

You wake up, head pounding for the last time.
You wake up alone for the first time.
Dry swallow some pain killers and go back to sleep.
Cover up the bruises and continue your day.
Your hand continues to sting.
Your heart aches almost as much as your nose does.
You never go back to the bar again.
You never go back to his house again.
You trade the emptiness for feeling.
You find pleasure elsewhere.
Sobriety is for the best.

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