Five of Cups
The cup is too flimsy to hold the blade and the hydrogen peroxide spills. Drinking the Captain Pepsi (not enough Pepsi to kill the rum) a little too quickly, shuddering and almost knocking the cup over. The bottle of pills falls off the microwave when you close the door, a splash of red appearing on the counter, and an inner voice wonders if that’s too many.
The cup of water sits off to the side. Dab it against the cuts, warm and stinging. Chase away the dehydration that’ll reverberate against your skull in the morning, and drown that feeling of disappointment at already being so sober. (How much will it take to find that slaphappy point again?) Your body hasn’t quite forgiven the water for bringing the pills earlier, but you have to drink something (don’t think about how bad not even being able to keep water down might be).
An empty cup that doubles as a bowl sits on the windowsill in the morning light. You made it through the 2 AM thoughts (knowing it’s so much harder to break skin than you thought), crawled into bed at 3 AM sober (knowing you can drink casually), woke up at midnight (wondering how to apologize to your liver without lying that you’re sorry).
You open a can of soup, the plans for the day fizzling into uncertainty beyond eating. Even with the pain, the fear, the cowardice, the past is clearer than the future (carried in your scars, your body). You touched the metaphorical stove, and all that’s left is to take the lessons with you.