Booze burns my dry, cracked lips,

searing down through my

innards. I make like

this is relaxation- French

Brandy, lounging-

when really I am simply

bored.

 

Where are you to help decide

my next move, as I fumble and thumb

my way through the dark brambles before me-

the final remnants of

your Rabbit Hole?

 

I hopped on to your bandwagon

myself; my demise my own.

Perhaps I should have

known you’d slashed the tires, cut the brakes,

before we’d even started.