Diaries of an alcoholic

People can start to feel like a distant memory; folded away between an old copy of wuthering heights. You know the kind.

They start to resemble drunken nights,

The events of the past begin to shape-shift into distorted images and blurs.

Only sometimes,

you don’t want to wake up with no recollection of what went down the night before.

You want an explanation, a chance to understand why your left arm is bruised or why your ankles are swollen or why trying to form words feels like the life is being sucked out of you.

Except you have no choice but to sift through old scraps and pictures and make calls to friendly strangers trying to put together a puzzle that never had enough pieces to form a complete picture in the first place.

So you anticipate the hangover,

Foresee the flashes of the emotions you crave.

You try to wear off his scent with hot showers and pretend that his lips were like the bottle of whiskey you swore you’d never touch again.

But hangovers, make for the best stories.

And before you know it;

You’ll find yourself alone at the corner of the bar,

Begging for another drink.

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