coping was never my strong suit

The bottle
is where I carry my anger.
I swig from it like it hurt me,
and it did.
I let it slide down my throat,
settle in my stomach,
and I let it fester.
I let it free me,
curl my lips in contempt
and damn the world.
I let it scorch my insides,
make me ache and shiver.
I let myself squeeze a little tighter,
laugh a little less,
and yell a little louder.

The bottle
is where I carry my pain.
I sip slowly,
taking the time to ask it
to be careful,
tell it that I am no longer
the steel I was.
I whisper my ache into the glass,
and it keeps it safe.
I can still hear its whimper
when I put the lid on.

The bottle
is where I carry my silence.
I let it speak for me,
but it doesn't speak the words
I ask of it.
It speaks for me,
and all it knows to do
is scream.

The bottle
is where I carry my trepidation.
I know I shouldn't
take another shot
but I'm too far gone to notice
if my hand reaches for one.
I walk past a bar
and become all too familiar
with my father's favourite pastime.
I see bottles
like I see mirrors
and I can't help but ask myself
if it's him I'm looking back at.
I look at the bottle
and I whisper my fears to it,
because it already knows me
more intimately
than it should.
I ask it
why I still carry it with me,
even though I promised myself
that I wouldn't.

My bottle
is where I carry my father.
He's always there,
drowning himself in vodka,
and smiling each time
I take a sip.
I ask the bottle
if he would be proud.
It hasn't answered me yet.