Love Sick - 03/01/19

I love gin and I hate red wine.

They disregard my feelings and like me both the same -

hit me bitter,

like my father;

soak,

like bed sheets;

swell/roll/spill,

like a child for a man.

Dawn breaks over me

shamefully

and I have to be drunk,

or to break a bottle over me.

After time after time that

I'm toes and fingers free of it,

I'll be pulled under the wheel again -

skinless -

hair long and tangled in the spoke,

like before I was ugly.

I love pink gin and I hate myself.

I'm afraid of how long I'll sleep in sickness,

fearing wading

through all that I've fished up.

I'm afraid I prefer it.

I'll never be over it.