One Hour

It’s 2 AM Monday morning
when I hear the front door
creak open and shut with a slam.
The light from the fridge reveals half
of the sulking, unshaved face, complete
with glossy, sulking eyes I have grown
to despise, fixated upon the cause
that is clinking together.
A case of bottles containing the dark
brown serum that turns you into
him.

As soon as I smell the slightest
hint of that stale, grainy disaster,
my head throbs with hatred.
I bash myself with my hands.
I purge the thoughts from my mind,
out of my body. I scream to get that taste
of rage and disgust out and onto the floor
that leads me into these restless sleeps,
and right into the constant hangover of you.

Intoxication becomes your sober.
I will never touch that.  I hope you read this
for the one hour you are coherent,
for the one hour you can manage
to contain yourself and resist this bottle
that has shattered my family.

For the one hour you aren’t slobbering
and slurring every syllable you attempt
to spit out. I hope you see this as you
pick yourself up from the bathroom
tile that you have now claimed as your bed
and you actually feel an emotion
in your senseless body when I say
I am done.