December 18, 2009

Weapons of Self Distraction

At the bottom of an empty shot glass lies splashes of gold Tequila, remnants of bitten lime and mounting disaster where quiet was once poured.

Liquor makes you quicker. By then, it matters little that you are slow to anger...which I am not. Fists are balled into avalanches that will not stop. Shafts of white heat stab in and out of cognizant thought. My chest is warm now. My head, God help it, is expanding and contracting like malcontent rubber bands hellbent on violent release and revelry. Eager to snap. This is personal. This is physical. This is liquor making it quicker. Bringing all the unsightly things to the surface like lesions. Not even the bouncers want to get involved.

If the enemy of the enemy is my friend- why is it so hard to be good to my friend? Could it be that I am my own worst enemy? I am spoiling for a fight in which no one can be crowned victor. We are unworthy opponents waging war in ignoble battles.

It's burgundy now where glittery, sand colored shadow was brushed on earlier. The lid, wanting ice but puffing up defiantly, tells on me. There is no make-up to conceal my shame. My wanton ways, temper now tame.

A reminder that a shot glass, let alone four, need not be drained into an empty stomach and heavy head.