The Bitter Promise
I once sought solace in the glass—
a whisper of escape,
a momentary veil to cover the ache.
But now, each sip is a wound,
and the bottle, a cruel friend,
laughs at my weakness,
its bitter kiss deeper than before.
I remember when it numbed the mind,
when the fire inside softened
into something close to peace.
Now, the burn only stirs the fire
and the silence between each breath
grows louder than the screams
I tried to drown.
How many times can I drink
from this poisoned well,
hoping for salvation in the liquid
that only sinks me deeper?
The glass no longer promises escape—
it drags me further,
its weight heavier with each pull.
I am tired of waiting for the night to swallow me whole,
tired of staring at the darkness
and asking if it will take me
this time,
or the next.
But still, I drink.
I drink as if this time,
just this time,
it will all fade away,
and I will wake from this dream
where I am both lost
and the one who lost.
Tomorrow never comes.
And I drink again.
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