Confessions of An Alcoholic

I used to pretend you were a glass of sweet red wine, a crystal glass full of something that made my head spin. and you promised that you wouldn't hurt me, aged to perfection, pure, with just the right amount of sin. They told me to drink you down slowly, to simply enjoy the taste of you tattooed on my lips. But from the moment you first stained my tongue red, the moment your fingers traced my hips, I know I would let you draw maps on my skin. Until the bottles were all empty, I parted my lips and drank you in. I was a soft, golden champagne, tinted by the red hue of you, Perfection in a crystal glass I thought I called mine. But you were just they dirty smoke of cigarettes at midnight, the pain of an angry red wine. People kept telling me that I shouldn't have drank you down so fast, that bottles like you don't last, and you would be gone in the morning. I should have listened, I should have cared, but instead I drank you down, because I liked the way you made me feel. Your lips felt like heaven, and I was so high I couldn't get much higher. But then, like a falling star, I came crashing down when I found out it wasn't real. You were an angry red wine, pour into a goblet made of stone. You held my hand and watched as my lips stained themselves red... I hope this new kind of vodka will taste as good as you, with your lips like heaven and your eyes straight from hell. This new kind of vodka burns a lot more than you ever did... and it told me a secret, one that I can never tell. That I hope this new kind of vodka tastes as good as you, because if I can't find something that will make me the same kind of numb, I don't know what I'm going to do.