Next time I'll be her Nerello Mascalese

Four walls don't make a home
until they see you crash through their doors
an empty bottle,
with the scent of lips still on your neck,
drained, drunk, and dry,
rolling on the floor
hoping you don't chip on the tiles
before you pick yourself up again to be recycled,
telling yourself
Next time I'll be her Nerello Mascalese.

...until they see you so distracted that your autopilot fails,
clipping a wall as you walk by,
over compensating and hitting an open door instead,
losing the trail of your already lost temper,
winding up and hitting the door out of your way
and into the foot you forgot you had placed,
hopping and stumbling, dropping what you held,
sitting back on the closest thing
and having the coffee table break under your weight
and you let out a F**K
and all you can think is
Why would she say that?

...until they see you awake all night
watching your clock,
calculating and recalculating how little sleep you'll be lucky to get,
while curled up with socks and a sweater on,
still cold and shivering,
with pillows for blankets because they're still in the wash,
because something came up
and even in your half dreams your only thought is 
Who forgets their f*****g bedding in the wash.

...until they see each of your own walls fall down
to reveal that frail skeleton you've been hiding,
those four walls will never be your home.

Reviews

[WordKnurd]

I have to say, I really loved this poem. The imagery is so intense, and to those of us who have spent some time around alcoholics, frighteningly accurate. The first two stanzas are particularly good. I feel like I have seen these two scenes before. I also enjoyed the asides, "next time..." and "Why would she say that?" I found it very interesting that the character was obsessing over the opinions of others when he/she has so little of their own life together. I loved that the character's highest aspiration is to be like a fine wine, when alcohol is the root of the problem.

I found the weakest portion of the poem to be the very end. The third stanza is a little unclear. I had to read it a few times to understand exactly what was going on. I don't believe the line about four walls needs to be repeated (or, if you really want that to be the focus of the poem allude to that thought one or two more times, just to really drive it home.) As is, I feel like it sums up the ending a little too tidily. You are telling me exactly what this poem was about rather than leaving me to figure it out on my own. I might even prefer that the poem simply end with the line about the wash.

All tolled, this is a beautiful, poignant poem and you have a great talent. Please review one of mine if you have the time.

[i.am.the.sun.]

Hiya, thanks for the review! I actually found the weakest part to be the third stanza as well, which is why I changed it. This is really a saved 1st copy of the poem. I like to keep originals and since this site sees so little action it's become my dumping ground for rough drafts.
I appreciate what you're saying about the ending, and I'll consider it. It seems I should mention though that this piece isn't actually about alcoholism, or at least it wasn't intended to be. If that's what it is to you, then that's what it is to you ;)
It's intended to express that, as the ending explains, a house isn't a home until it's seen parts of yourself that you hide from others. Like when you walk in the door, completely devastated that you gave so much of yourself to someone that you're empty and still came away empty handed and unloved. It's not a home until you've broken down with panic attacks over something or someone and are left helpless to do simple tasks. etc.
The last stanza in this version is really just a recount of something that happened to me recently, but everything here is as well to some extent. The current version is a bit different, I'll post it but I'll also post it here. I hope you enjoy it a little more. And I will still think about changing the end.
...
Four walls don't make a home
until they see you so distracted that your autopilot fails,
clipping a wall as you walk by,
over compensating and hitting an open door instead,
losing the trail of your already lost temper,
hitting the door out of your way
and into the foot you forgot you had placed,
hopping and stumbling, dropping what you held,
sitting back on the closest thing
and having the coffee table break under your weight
and you let out a F**K
and all you can think is
Why would she say that?

...until they see you crash through their doors
an empty bottle,
with the scent of lips still on your neck,
drained, drunk, and dry,
rolling on the floor
hoping you don't chip on the tiles
before you pick yourself up again to be recycled,
telling yourself
Next time I'll be her Nerello Mascalese.

...until they see you awake all night
writing skylines of half hearted lyrics
as life moulds around you,
ignoring the clock,
the brightening sky,
the first chirping birds,
as you wonder how many times you have to write down a lie
for it to be true to you.
And through your half-dreams you whisper
How did she do it.

...until they see each of your own walls fall
to reveal that shaking skeleton you've been hiding inside,
those four walls will never be your home.