Thin Lines

The red string connects Moscato to Heineken

 Bacardi to Vodka

Malibu Rum to Corona.

Wound tight around the necks,

An intricate web stretching too thin.

Searching the bottom of each bottle,

Unsatisfied with your mere reflection

So you move to the next, polishing that off as well, until

You’re caught in red string, too tangled to set yourself free.

As you struggle with all your might, the bottles clank and

Crash into one another.

They crash into you.

They shatter and bust,

Slicing shallow cuts into your skin that sting and burn,

Leftover drops of poison mixing with your blood.

Desire burns stronger so you reach for another bottle.

You wind your red string around the neck of the next..

“Just one more,” you say, too weak to refuse.

It’s a vicious cycle

You can’t seem to break.