I sit on my velvet chair in the darkest corner

of my room. I sit beside the oak end table

and a glass, empty on the stone coaster.

It drips Redbull and chilled vodka sweat.

 

I wait for my wings as I strip my clothes, placing them

in the overflowing hamper. I slip into pajamas I have

never worn. Beside them, there, glistening in the light,

a glass, still chilled, still bleeding top-shelf poison.

 

I have not yet swallowed enough to enter

my nightly stupor. Although, they say memory

is made worse by depression. I pick up this glass

and the coastered one too and I give them to the sink.

 

They are placed upon three more glasses, all chilled

and emptied of their drink. I rub my eyes and wait

for them to disappear. They do not. They sit crystal

clear. I may have ingested more than I had thought.

Lucid dreaming, I think it would be diagnosed.

 

Deciding its best that I lay down for the night, I slip

under the covers to a coldness on my toes. I throw off

the blankets expecting a creature in need of a cuddle

tonight. Instead, it’s a glass, empty but wet. It rolls

off the edge and it does not shatter.

 

The remaining drops of its contents soak into the now

puddled sheets on the floor. What else can I do

but collect the others from their lonely place in the sink.

I place them all neatly on my pillow. I tuck them in properly,

snuggly so they can sleep.

 

I squeeze them tightly and whisper a subtle

goodnight. And in harsh morning light, I reach

a hand for their hardened exterior, hopefully dried.

But my bed is empty. My blankets still cold.

They must have been lonely and now they’re full.