An Ode to Alcohol (And Other Tragedies)

this will not be pretty.
I am hating my hands as they write,
and all I can see is the night
that I was left bleeding from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party.

they tell me I am supposed to stop drinking.

but who the hell wants to stay sober when it means 
remembering what made the space between 
your legs hurt so badly when you woke up this morning?
who wants to see clearly when I could just
swallow a few mouthfuls of poison
to blur my vision, make the bruises fade to smudges
at the edge of my peripherals and I might be too drunk to think
but at least my mind will be too dull to remember
what I am dying to forget

and trust me, whiskey works like an anesthetic: 
I glaze it over the wound like honey, and
sometimes I get lucky enough to stop wincing, at least
until I catch a glimpse in the mirror, and then
I see the circles under my eyes
and  the places they touched that still burn
and the bones that should have broken 
under their hands, and then
even the frostiest beer mug can't cool me down
so I switch to hard liquor

but the rum gets me blushing, and
my insides start to overheat as my thoughts
are forming iron knots
and my fingers twist into fists I should have thrown
in their faces as they held me down
but I didn't, no -- their hands were too tight
around mine, and I'm still here
belly somehow both hollow and sloshing with vodka
all because of the night that I bled from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party

this is not a pretty feeling
this is sprinting barefoot on asphalt, holding
a half-empty bottle in my hands and sobbing
slamming my feet on pavement because I swear,
something sinister is trying to steal what is left in this body
though there isn't much left to take, really

see, they tell you not to walk down alleyways
alone at night, not to wear short skirts
or pucker your lips too much
they tell you about men with dark coats, but
they don't tell you about boys with nice eyes
and strong hands
and soft voices and wide smiles
and hungry mouths that swallow you whole
the kind with plenty more liquor at home to shove down your throat
and cameras in their back pockets.
and I am supposed to feel blessed
because I survived, because I am not dead, but
somehow I find myself hesitant to thank God
for putting me through hell without at least
having the decency to kill me first.

I'll just try to distract myself from the fact
that I still smell like fear. I'm told that predators
can sense it on your skin, so maybe that was my first mistake.
and maybe if I had been sober, I would have seen it coming.
hell, that should be reason enough
to stop drinking.

but sometimes
the only way to stop the visions
is to black out.