Jim Beam and I Are No Longer On Speaking Terms

It's the smell of danger and fun that entices me,
the promise getting drunk gives.
Somethings going to happen.
I drink until the bottles drained.
"you got a curfew don't you?"
that's right, I'm too young for you.
"that skirt says otherwise"
White lightning sizzle on my tongue,
what is this?
Bitter powder pasted on the bottom of my glass.
Well, fuck.
Swirls of life pass around me,
the great and terrible thing,
whooshing in my ears.
Warmth floods my hands,
uncontrollable desire meets incapable flesh.
Amongst empty cans and cigarrette butts I take refuge.
Someone tugs at me,
I'm past caring.
Yelling, safety, heat.
Someone is holding me.
Sloshing arms and golden eyes.
Who?
It's Jim!
I'm carried over drunks and tossed onto the couch.
Three bitter hisses break my daze
"How. Could. You?"
The bottle in my grip shatters,
and alcohol saturated bile
cascades to the floor