Emotions spray in the air

wounded fragments cascading

from holes in heart sieve.

My bottle bleeds in drops

leaking out my skin, but

atomized thoughts fail to soar.

Sanguine pain pours deeply

from my blotched face.

brewery of festered thoughts.

Bottled up storm ferments

as I try to spew the tears out,

tied up in tortuous knots

from being tangled too long.

Stomach growls and festers

trying to vomit infestation,

trapped in my cage of rage,

boiling secrets unsaid.

I slap a smile on my face

and glue it to the walls,

hiding my numb body

behind my grinning facade.

Please twist open

burning bottle of agony

and read my truths

before they tunnel

deeply encased

inside my soul.

He sent to the sea

Would disappear in the foam

Never to return again.

Yet no answer arrived

But he never gave up.

He continued writing

His undisputed message

In every bottle:

“I am alive”

Every bottle is packed with potential

tonight could be the greatest night ever

We'll take shots all around! Shoot em up,

Shoot em down! Had enough? Haha! Never!

Every bottle is flowing with freedom

You are young and so is the night

It's bound to be epic, you & your friends

Running wild until dawns first light

Every bottle is a cure for what ails you

Easing the pain, making you numb

Till you forget that your life's gone to shit

Till you're blubbering, drooling & dumb

Every bottle is like a helpful friend

A bottle will hold happily to your hand

Encouraging urges that sober you resists

A bottle meets your basest demands

Every bottle lowers your standards

A "2" at 10 becomes a "10" at 2

That ratchet skank is looking real hot

And sluts like her will always love you

Every bottle is a self-prescribed remedy

And Lord knows, you've always liked to fly

Bottles are better cuz bottles are legal?

I call bullshit. I say high is high.

Every bottle imprisons a moment

Like a thief whose stolen your time

You never noticed that the time had run out

You never noticed when you crossed that line

Every bottle is a magic carpet ride

Every place you're taken is so much fun

Except when there's emergency surgery

Or you met the business end of someone's gun

Every bottle is bursting with bubbles

Your memories scrubbed of their power

Cleansing the dirty truths in your mind

But fuck, this has been a long shower

Every bottle is a broken elevator

You sink lower each time you're drunk

Careening wildly for a rude wake up call

From the beer soaked gutter where you've sunk

Within every bottle is a story you create

Magnificent or insignificant

You can write it in all of it's grandeur

With great skill and forethought

To make it resplendent and awe-inspiring

Or you can choose to let the bottle win

To let it write a story of woe, despair or hatred

The choice is yours

 Though my skin  is silky and smooth 

 and my body has angular curves 

that tapers off elegantly preparing him for my insides-

He calls his friends over they laugh so loudly

then he grabbed me forcefully

removing my cap which was a physical and mental barrier 

to protect against people who will contaminate my insides

he did not even find out if I had too much sugar 

he just ripped off my clothes saying 

it's just a label

then he kissed  me on the mouth 

sucked onto my lips

lifted me up, then he turned me upside down

Now I am no longer clean,

and nothing is left inside of me

you could see through my soul 

he was finally done with me 

so he dumped me hard

and now I am broken.

Since I don’t drink

(alcohol, that is)

my favorite bottle

is the

cruet.

What’s a cruet?

You may ask.

A glass bottle,

indeed,

for oil,

and vinegar too

if you so desire.

On a kitchen table

near the salad bowl.

I keep one

beside my stove

full of beautiful

yellow

extra virgin

olive oil

so when I cook

it’s handy.

And decorative.

Every bottle has a story,

when he finally gave in again,

when the pain seeped up into his teeth,

when his hands started shaking,

and it wasn't worth being sober anymore.

Every bottle has a story,

when she came in and poured them out,

righteous, like a Baptist mother,

draining it onto the devil's head,

and he'd wondered where she hid her wings.

Every bottle has a story,

and it still hurt,

when the detox came,

but she held his head on her lap,

and whispered in his ear,

"Stop wasting time, stop wasting time,"

by drinking it away.

With every bottle 

The memories blur 

My children nothing more 

Than a distant memory

These bottles; this addiction 

Nothing more than self-preservation

Every bottle holds a story,

a single tear of

past

future

now.

Galaxies upon galaxies are 

dreamt into feathers of

tomorrow,

birthed by the bygone bottles

of the moon.

Every child grows (and knows) 

the tale,

every man weaves his

thread.

Sisters and cousins

learn to be by the bottle,

the cocoon of life,

to be wary,

to grow in a

religion only the bottle 

holds.

Every bottle

holds a story,

a tear,

a feather,

a thread,

a religion.

Every bottle holds the dead.