Bitter Bottles

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The relationship between alcohol and lost love.

Submitted: August 18, 2015

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Submitted: August 18, 2015

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People say to fill your cup with love, but I'm not sure where to find it.
I'm always grabbing for fermented bottles. I always cringe at the bite.
He holds me warm in winter, I no longer feel so empty.
His kisses feel like soft melting snowflakes.... But i'm the snow. 
I'm left a stain on the carpet. I'm left a stain on his life. I'm left chugging on bitter bottles.
I could swim in my misery, and I do it all the time. It's the only way I feel completely weightless. 
I must be a special kind of person to be lifted in hell, or maybe I'm just sick. 
He used to trace the lines of my face. Now, I'm not sure if I'm here anymore.
I hold my breath waiting for the answer. I hold my breath and dive deep into the unknown parts of my mind. 
I always come up empty handed. I'm too afraid to touch anything. No one wants to relive the past. 
My psych always told me, "Your trauma doesn't want to torture you. It's searching for completion." 
I half heartedly search for it, but in reality, I'm too afraid to leave my bed.
The covers feel the way his arms did, and I've become a bottomless pit. No amounts of love could save me from this. 
I keep filing my cups and they'er always coming back empty. Maybe I should quit drinking.
Maybe I need to quit thinking about things that make me feel this way. 
Maybe one day the bottle will be empty to. Then I can sleep with the cold air, and without the reminder of his arms on a winter night.


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