I watch you, watching me,
watching the liqour on top of the fridge.
You think that's out of my reach?

 I'm not 9 anymore, not your carrier pigeon.
I'm 5'6", six inches stronger.
Closer to the top of the fridge.

When I eye it, the taste
of pink lemonade and burning Jack Daniels
involuntarily mutinies my tongue.
A bitterfire of every binge regret
I can get my hands on.

 I drink to forget , to
lose myself in a foggy forest
of (why didn't I pull the trigger?) adderall
and razors, mixed with two parts daddies liqour
and one part Everclears "Wonderful."
Then (why? why didn't I?) why do I remember
it so goddamn well? (I should have.)

 I drink to fall into bed, 
my face a soggy mess of (but I didn't.) runny eyeliner
and the remaining redness of (why didn't I pull it?!)
a failed attempt at purging.

 I don't want it to be this way.
(there must have been a reason.)
But I don't know any other way to be.
(there must be a reason.)
I'm half alive.
(because I'm not dead yet.)
I'm living
(there's a reason.)
I'm alive.