don't mistake the things I feel guilty about with the things I regret.

Frantic.  
I was burning madness.  
Head was hot in the steamy night.  
Streets alive with music from all sides.  
Sweating out nothing but the bottle of scotch given to me by a girl.  
She told me her Father was an alcoholic.  
She told me that I could handle it.  
To get it away from him, she said, would help her.  
I didn't understand it then.  
But I was the drunken hero.  

Sweat. Antsy. Anxious.  
I heard brass clashing from a foyer.  
It was good.  
Boy was it good.  
My feet were still bare and leaving blood spots with every step.  
Raw.  
The music was bleeding.  
Pleading.  
My feet begging mercy.  
 
Humidity so heavy I forgot about smoking.  
I catch my reflection from a display window,  
match it with the mannequin,  
I looked handsome in its clothes.  
I smiled but I hate my crooked teeth.  
It brought me back down.  
My confidence tends to betray me.  
 
Who's handing me this drink?  
Who cares.  
Glutton flashes through my mind.  
I eat the ice cubes and chew at the lime.  
Panic  
The room is crushing me.  
I forgot what state i'm in.  
I find an alley and crouch behind a dumpster,  
there's a hidden bottle of rum underneath it,  
I grab it and unscrew the cap top and stop.  
and for one second, everything around me paused, pulsating.  
...  
..  
...  
I don't know how I can see the starry sky with a city this bright.  
And in that second,  
I felt sick. Guilty.  
I cap the bottle and put it back exact as to look untainted, still pure.  
Someone like me left this behind.  
I can't do that to this stranger.  
He or she or whoever will need it later.  
Just like I would.  
Some sense of drunk comradery makes me nod to the graffiti.  
'you know'  
I'm taken back by my laughter.  
I forget what I sound like sometimes.  
I hate it.  
 
Where was I?  
 
Frantic.  
I was burning madn.....