It’s the weekend and we go through the same routine.

But my routine and their routines are different from one another.

We gather around with mouths eager to get our red cups filled.

But the cups never suffice; the small glasses of fire that burn the throat start to go around.
“Pass this bottle, pass that bottle. Swallow it, it will be fun.”

But my mindset isn't on the free drink smiling back at me.

Ten O’clock. Twelve O’clock… Three O’clock a.m.

I am holding a bottle that is more than half empty in my cold, shaking hands.
But I’ve only possessed someone else’s unfinished drink.

I’m laughing, I’m loud, I’m hugging everyone I pass by.

But the neurons in my mind have not been affected as much as they would presume.

I talk to strangers as if something has boosted my non-existant confidence.

But alcohol hasn’t even kissed my lips all night.

It’s the weekend and I go through the same routine.