As you climb back onto the barstool,
I catch your glasses in mid-fall and,
with care not to stumble, place them back to your face.
Can you see now? Probably not.
We've become flies, you know.
Clinging to these bottles and cups, caught in the sweatdrops.
Our wings, soaked by combination of clumsiness and eagerness to sip.
And though we still have legs, they've temporarily forgotten their duty.
They are drunk and laughing at our bodies, jesting,
"Where do you think YOU'RE going?!"
But we're both drowning together, right?...Am I right?
You hold my hand.
You bite my ear.
You keep me here night after night as...a friend? No.
As an excuse. But, I understand.
Though, I'd rather pretend not to. And you know this.
Before long, the crowd closes in.
We're prey to each of their sappy sorry stories,
their old man hands grasping our thighs and it makes me sick.
I shiver with pure hatred. But it all must be expected, by now.
So, we've adapted. Or, rather, I have.
For, you made this hellhole a home long ago and
I am nothing more than a lonesome, foolish guest.