Why I quit
I used to think
I didn't have a problem
Until one morning
I woke up naked
Next to my best friend

Struggling not to vomit
I clawed my way
Through the stench
Through my own filth
Through my guilt

What had I become?
Why couldn't I remember anything
Except the taste of vodka
Which slowly began to taste
A lot like water

Where was my phone in all this mess?
I had to call the only person
The only person who understood
Except through my nausea
I knew I had hurt him

Why did I do this to myself?
And what more
Why did I hurt the person
Who was there for me the most?
I roused my best friend out of bed

Strange but he called me beautiful
We drove home in silence
And even though I was sober
I kissed him anyway
I stumbled in my back door

Maybe showering would help
But no matter how much soap
I had a problem
I had to quit this
I was killing myself

I just didn't know how to let go
Until the moment I called my lover
And he screamed and cried
Until he told me
It was him or the drink






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bedheadisme
Poetry
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writing bedheadisme
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Synopsis
This is a reaction to a piece I read on this site. This is a true poem but the reason I decided to write this was because I hated the last poem on this subject I read.
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