"Let's play the drunk and miserable game"

[brosedshield]

* * *

Let’s play the drunk-and-miserable game.
I’ll go first.
I say, “Let’s drink the bottle!”
And you say nothing because you’re not here.
So I drink the bottle.

The more I hit the walls walking home
The more I know it isn’t fun
I’m far gone, practically blind
And you say nothing, because you’re not here.
But I still have a bottle

Don’t worry that I drink alone.
It’s just because I haven’t any friends.
Wait.
That is, no friends here.
I have friends, just I left them.
And I don’t talk to anyone here.
Wait.
It’s not like I drink that much.
I’m not drunk.
It’s just a bottle.

* * *

This poem comes from when I was a good deal more sad and lonely in Spain than I am now. And also from the fact that there is no good way to talk about drinking alone that doesn't come off as depressing (I don't like going outside my house, and then becoming intoxicated around strangers whose language I'm not even 95% effective in; why is that more socially acceptable than having a few glasses of wine in one's apartment? SEE, EVEN THERE, IT LOOKS DEPRESSING.)

Apparently, I was planning to make this into a song. Hmmm, now where did that melody go...

Comments

[pourtant.livejournal.com]

So I stumbled into this post after reading the amazing Freak Camp fic, and everything about this poem felt so familiar (down to the part about being in Spain) that I just had to comment. So this is me commenting to say I loved it. And yes, there's really no way to talk about this without turning it into a thing (that it's probably not).