You live in your stupor, careless
of this world around you, living
only for the bottle in your hand.
You would and have starved
for it; it empties your pockets:
The bills lay scattered on the floor
and the cabinets remain bare.
You say you can quit, promise—
then tip the bottle,
press it against your lips,
take a swig, smile
like it’s the funniest thing in the world
and break my heart.