I cling onto different bottles
thinkin’ they’ll make things easier.
I cling to my bottle like when I was a baby
but now it’s full of poison,
full of somethin’ that instead of
makin’ me feel realer
makes me fell less real
and that’s exactly what I look for
only to want to discard that same feelin’ the next day
and the next day is simply purgatory.
When the liquid ends
I look for smoke.
Aren’t they the eternal rejuvenators?
Creators of new life?
Is that why I hide in a bath of liquid and a cloud of smoke?
First published on Misfits’ Miscellany: