Empty bottle (a failed tale)

Another one down.

I think twice about opening a new. What doesn't keep me from the decision already taken: lid off. The liquid flows out with that characteristical sound, 'til the glass is filled. I don't care if it's too early, or If I already drank too much. I'm alone and this is my only comfort. I know it makes no sense, but suddenly I understand the drama of the alcoholics, and raise my glass to it, in a disrespectful, nasty toast.

Maybe I'm just not that confident as I'd like to pretend. And with the world falling around me, I can't pretend I don't see it. I wish I did. But ignorance is a good place where I can't afford a trip to.

One more long, big sip. Almost a liter, and it's not even 9 a.m. I know that soon there will be consequences, but I couldn't care less by now. Firecracks. The World Cup of Football is on, and nobody seems to give a fuck about anything else. Evil may overcome. Injustice will prevail. They'll mourn it in the morning, but not before the games. But then everything will be lost.

Lust over dejection. All pornography seem so shallow. Toys as torturing devices that only reminds me how far away you are.My pussy is dry, my eyes are wet. I drown my griefs. The devil talks dirty, and this turns me on.

But not today.

I'd fall back to bed - I fall for you instead. The work can wait but the word is urgent. Another dose of inspiration, and I spill myself over poems on your beauty and your thrill. All non suitable for publishing, all too sweet to get one blushing.

Not my style.

I pour another glass, and notice I'm starting to get nauseous. Over two liters of water, and it's not even 10 in the morning.