A Shot of Bourbon
Hi. I miss you. I know it’s been a while, and I only talk to you when I’m drunk. I don’t know why that is. I don’t think of you much these days, and I don’t drink as much as I did. But I think of you when I drink. I think of you talking to me and telling me how I shouldn’t drown my sadness in alcohol. You’re right, you always were. I see your smile as you laugh a small laugh as you take the shot glass from my hand.
“Don’t get lost in the bottle, get lost in my arms.” You said that to me, you said it that time you found me crying with the bottle of bourbon after those women at the party called me a whore. I pretended it didn’t bother me, but you knew it did. You told me it didn’t matter what they thought. You told me they were jealous.
“They are cruel because you have what they cannot have. I am yours, and that drives them crazy.” You were so convincing as you assured me everything was going to be ok. But it wasn’t, was it? They called me your whore, day after day. Their words and their judgmental glares made me run from the pain. One shot of bourbon, two, six, as many as it took to pass out and be numb.
I miss you sometimes. I never miss the pain. When I drink, I see your face and I hear your words telling me to get lost in your arms, not in the bottle. It’s hard to do that, when you are not here.