Another Bottle Hits the Floor

I’ve never felt this close to the ground before.
Day in and day out,
spent on the floor.
Bottle in my hand,
the other pressed against my chest.
The only way I stop the thoughts from entering is to keep shaking my head as hard as I can.
I pass out
wake up
and do it all over.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
I’m bleeding out and there’s no one to mop up the mess.
I take a cloth and wipe the floor.
The sick stench of iron burns my nostrils.
I scrub.
I scrub so hard I rip one of my nails off as I flinch with the cloth.
I give up and turn back to the bottle.
I close my eyes,
take a deep breath,
hum my favourite song and open them again.

There is no blood.
There is only the bottle
and the pain in my chest.
The bottom of a bottle doesn’t give you answers,
it just postpones the questions until you’re ready to deal with them.

Suffering for love is okay,
but it’s not worth bleeding out for,
so get up.