I wake up
hung over from the night before
the air is ripe with familiarity
my feet hit the floor
first, a shower
then comes an hour
drowning in shower thoughts
steam fills the air as I fill with regret
I have failed
I have succumbed
to the divine taste of wine
yet again
numbness runs down my spine
as I recall the siren song
the bottle played me all night long
the warmth of its voice still breathing down my neck
I am trapped
at the bottom
not of a bottle
but in the pit of despair
the bottle is merely my fleeting attempt to pull me out of there
I claw
I clammer
Grasping vice after vice
attempting my way back to the better version of me that I barely remember
my hope
is a thread
my shame
is sharp
can I climb my way up before I cut me apart?
I am luck to say
the answer is yes
I have taken the time to grow my own vine
yes, I am on the mend
self-love is in season
for I partake in a daily ritual
harvesting the grapes of love I now grow from within