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The Empty Bottle

She never considered herself
As the type of drinker
To be classified as alcoholic.

The sherry in her morning coffee
Was just what she needed
For opening up her eyes.


At the 10 o’ clock tea break,
The glass of orange juice
Was her secret mimosa.

Or she’d never make it to noon
Where at lunch, unnoticed,
She’d have a few glasses of wine.

Her evenings started with brandy,
Except on those harder ones
Which required a good whisky.

Otherwise each dreary day
Would commence in raging anger,
Progressing into melancholy.

Between the career, marriage,
Family, and bottom of a bottle,
Was a space she’d fallen through.

Where every situation arising
Required a low level of inebriation
To suffice as coping skills.

Even the flask of aged rum
Kept hidden in her nightstand,
Was purely as a sleep aid.

Convincing herself completely
There’s no harm in being tipsy
And it wasn’t hurting anybody.

Since there was never any
Blackouts, regurgitation or injuries,
Major accidents, lewdness, or vulgarity.

And that it was the real secret
Behind her minty fresh breath,
And the sparkle in her eye.

Until she drowned alongside
Her sorrows and her demons
While filled with the spirits.

They could’ve hardly pryed
The empty bottle from her
Cold dead hands even then.

Ria 2016

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