My Drug of Choice.
It has no voice,
And yet it speaks to me.
So seductively it whispers nothings in my ear.
Cajoling, pleading, demanding in tones for only me to hear.
I cannot put this Gin back in the bottle once He’s out again, you see,
Though it was I that rubbed the bottle, He is master here, not me.
Oh! Wondrous and rare are the days that He is silent.
But always the days that follow are His most violent.
Struggling to keep the beast at bay is beating me.
My best efforts to stem this tide fall short so woefully.
Again, I cry into the empty night for aid,
And listen, silence answers, my echoes fade.