broken brown bottle on a concrete fence

Broken Bottles

black wine bottles
Photo by payam masouri on
I broke up with the Bottle
A thousand months ago
I sat myself beside him
And cried to see him go.
His amber sides were
Sloshing against the
Barriers of my brain
He soothed me and
Romanced me from
Sun-up to close of day.

I tried to tell him things
Between the two of us
Weren’t working out for me.
He shook his Amber hair
And pled insanity. 
I tried to explain that it 
Was me, not him to blame, 
That I had become too 
Dependent on him,
And he was soaking
Into the fabric of my brain.

He said he didn’t mind
Becoming part of my mind
He would take my soul too – 
He was the ever-loving kind. 
Shaking him off was not an 
Option, nor was pitching
Him out to sea. 
Wherever I would go
He would up and follow me. 

It had to stop, it had to end
I had to get away:
My hand was always reaching
Out to him at start and close of day.
Without him my stomach lurched.
Without him my hands shook
At both attempted rest and play.
Without him the wallpaper crawled
With insect menace.
Without him tigers stalked the halls
Waiting for me to go their
Ravenous boozy way. 

So, he had to go wherever I went.
He wormed into every secret nook. 
We visited supermarkets,
Suppers, beach trips and work.
We wandered down dark alleyways
And frittered away time endlessly. 
Sometimes I had to hunt him out
Sometimes he simply found me. 
And sometimes when the dark closed in
He moved up a little nearer
I would tip him up and pour him
Over waiting for everything 
To become a little
More comfortably unclearer.
Clarity was our enemy. 
Time was the biggest defense
Alongside good old Ethanol
Keeping good and bad firmly
At arm’s length. 

He wiped away my memories.
He patted away my tears.
He made me forget everything:
Myself. My hopes. My fears. 
But when I needed to remember
He stood guard in the way
It was the price for seeing him
Day after drunken day. 

Yes, I broke up with the bottle
You know it was me or him.
He was taking me down to
The depths for that long deep
Alcoholic swim.
I see him every day, sitting
On tables and shelves
I have to try and ignore him
As he whores himself out
Pretending to be ‘the help’.
He sometimes winks right at me
Reminding me of our time:

I lick the salt and bitter juice
Of a thousand virgin limes. 

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