Wasted

The empty bottles have been scattered over the bedroom floor. The fridge, filled with sealed bottles that are ready to be drunk.  The temptation of just grabbing a bottle after one bottle that has been emptied is too strong. He throws the emptied bottle across the room because he’s forgotten where the trash goes. He can only find the winding way to the liquor. He’s forgotten about the world. He’s been too lost in his own world to deal with the real world. His pain and desires just don’t match up anymore.  Nothing is enough. His cravings and his sorrows deepens him with every step closer he gets to being sober. Out of nowhere it hits him, and he spirals down again. Filling his vanes with poison.  Intoxicating his monsters that he had created in his mind.  He doesn’t believe that they are a part of him.  He fights and beats them up with the little energy he has left in his body. He’s trying to kill them, but by doing that he’s hurting himself.  The closer he get in murdering the monsters the closer he gets to his own grave.  He’s killing himself.  The lines of reality and fantasy are blurred together, as if his conscious was shut down and is only left with his subconscious never knowing what is happening or able to think for himself.  So he drinks. One shot after the other, not knowing when to stop. He’s tried popping pills and smoking but the pleasure he received wasn’t what he needed.  The warm feeling of the liquor flowing down his throat into his chest and slowly disappearing in his stomach was the sensation he wanted to feel.  He cold feel the heat spread through his vanes, the poison doing its job, only he hasn’t realizes he’s a victim of the liquor’s venom.  He falls deeper and deeper into the spell.  The outcome is addictive and he’s become the pray and the addict.  The thought of waking up in the morning doesn’t matter because he knows that one of these days he won’t see the sun rise or set.