Looking through the glasses.

It's surprising how often I find a piece of me. 

Floating face down, desperately trying to drown in the bottom of a bottle. 

So many vices strangle me. 

So many holes in a rusty hand me down suit of armor. 

The pages fill themselves when the bottle passes by. 

The words pour from its mouth as if they we my own lips.

Truth, stands silent in the corner. 

His confidence grows with every coating burn. 

Louder, clearer, and with an ever growing fervor.

He spells out my failures and pours me another glass.  

Pushes it to my lips, and whispers, see who you are.

The whisper trails off as the ice clinks and the glass holds strong.

and again the words bleed from the pen. 

The anesthetic most useful to remove a piece of me

and allows it to formlessly flow to the page. 

When the ink dries, the piece is trapped, never to return.

As the glass grows full, the whisper returns. 

See who you are.