Fragmentary Bottles

7:12 am.

Far too early for the shot glass full of

whiskey I just drained,

And far too late to fix anything

That I faithlessly destroyed.

I pour another shot of my vice

Perhaps this one will be kind enough to dull down

the overwhelming cacophony in my head.

The previous ones haven't.

My eyes drift from my glass

to the half empty bottle,

glaring accusingly into the burning liquid,

As though all of the blame for this 

Could be found and rectified

within this vessel of incertitude.

But no.

The only one to blame is myself.

And there is no rectification for me.

I sigh, finishing off my shot in a moments time.

The noise between my ears is growing so loud,

I can't seem to think straight any more. 

Again, I look accusingly at the bottle.

Maybe this whiskey is broken,

because it's not working.

But then...

Maybe it's not the alcohol that's broken,

maybe that's just me.

And like I always seem to do,

I've simply passed the flaw of character

right along to the next...

Damn it all.