Poems//Paris Grose

Vodka

It's late.
I don't even know what time it is.
I smashed my phone after I got the message.
I know that the sky is daunting shades of darkness and death,
And I know it's past 2am because you never stumble out of that fucking bar, any earlier than that.
Now the only thing to comfort this surreal fucking pain,
Is that clear liquid hell that with every shot,
Goes down my throat with a fiery wrath of pain that could never hurt more than this.

1 shot of vodka down.
How do I still have tears to cry?
Could it be the vodka I'm running off,
Coming out my eyes?
My eyes that are blood shot,
Redder than the blood I'm picturing,
Coming out your mouth.
I told you not to let this happen.
I told you to always call me.
But I guess you didn't,
And what if you had stayed for one more drink?
What if your car took 2 seconds longer to start?
Would any of this had happened?

Half a bottle of vodka in.
How much vodka does it take to kill an average girl like me?
Maybe a noose or blade would be better...
How am I still living with my whole heart gone?
Because about an hour earlier,
I received a message that read:
"I'm sorry to say, but your boyfriend is dead.
He left the bar at 2:47am,
He got in his car and went to come home,
But straight into somebody else's car he drove."

1 whole bottle of vodka in.
Oh in this is battle of life I thought I had finally conquered,
I have been defeated by alcohol and automobiles.
You were my rock, my life, my everything.
And I know this sounds cliche,
But you were the only reason my poisoned lungs are still breathing.
Oh fuck I'm so drunk,
Now I'm reaching for my keys,
I'm going to jump in the car and drive to the scene.
My head is spinning,
My whole body is aching,
But soon this all goes away,
With a bang and an instance.
"Time of death: 4:16am"