Falsely Self-Accused

I slid the box under the bed and as I did so, a bottle of whiskey came rolling out in relic form. A crossroads had presented itself, only one path seemed logical but there is no logic in addiction. I stood up peering down at the bottle laying so elegantly on its’ side. Calling me, tormenting me, whispering sad songs of despair and reminding me of the good times we had in my beautiful depression.

I picked up the bottle and walked to the kitchen sink to dump it out. I unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle, as I did so something stopped me just as the first drop hit the rust-stained sink. One sip couldn’t hurt I said to myself. With ambivalence I weakly took a small sip, then it all fell apart, as all things do.

I don’t know why I always ended up on the floor, I suppose I just liked the view looking up better than looking forward. So I returned to my safe space once again, one last ride through the valley of depth. Laying on the kitchen floor with a bottle of grief, comfortably dissatisfied. 

It tasted even better then I remembered, the warmth trickling down my throat and transmitting through my apathetic body. Powerlessly content, if only for a moment, I would still relish this callous mistake for as long as my chemical-imbalance would allow. 

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