Smells Like Teens With Spirits

My melancholy is a mess,
it follows me every day.
Though I would never ask to be left alone,
because my melancholy feels like home.

It has stories to tell,
of years long since passed.
It has memories to reveal,
memories I thought I'd glassed.

The smell of vodka tickles me,
it burns me to the core.
I drink myself to sleep each night,
if only to forget that whore.

Tell me secrets, secret heart,
and let me sing your song.
Let me play out rhythmically those words we've known all along.