Purging

I thought about vodka, I thought about sleep. I thought of the world, laying idle at my feet. I thought about a pick me up, I'd though to push you down. I though about the little things I couldn’t keep around. I thought about him and every single him before, I wondered what I’d be like if I’d learned to hold the door. Through silently maiming and thunderous shaking, it rattles your bones, empties bottles worth breaking, while killing the blame, whether giving or taking, like uncalled out claims that I should have been staking and burning down bridges, this mess that I'm making; remedied, if I’d escape this constant state of waking.