Letter to an empty room

It's 1pm on a Sunday afternoon and I'm drinking pinot noir straight out of the bottle and there's just nothing left to do but wait, wait for this quarantine to be over. The pinot noir is dribbling down my chin; I wonder if I threw this bottle across the room, would it make a sound? There's no one here but me.

Maybe I can write a letter to myself: dear Alison, don't start drinking before 5pm. Dear Alison, hang up the phone after the man insults you. Dear Alison, don't waste time emailing your deranged mother when she wouldn't even visit you in the psych hospital, all four times.

Maybe I can write a letter to my sister: Dear Stephanie, I'm sorry I was selfish. I'm sorry you feel the need to pursue "healthy relationships." I'm sorry you felt our relationship was a "one way street." I'm sorry I can't remember the rest of your text because I spilled wine all over my phone and then forgot to write a shitty response.

Maybe I can write a letter to the universe: Dear universe, how could you let this happen? One month after I'm released from the psych hospital and I'm locked up again? I'm losing it and unforunately, there are no restraits to pull me back from insanity now.

One month left. One month left to wait. There just aren't enough bottles of pinot noir for this.