you heaved,
upchucking your dinner
onto my wall-to-wall,
I cleaned it up
after I cleaned you up,
and somehow
I still found you amusing,
and I still cared.
The very last time
you vomited,
it was not only the contents
of your stomach,
but also the remnants
of your brain,
pickled, by then I knew,
in the alcohol
that you preferred
to me.
You spewed untruths
and supposed indignities
in angry chunks,
covering me
in the putrid spray,
leaving stains that
I can't erase.
She's still your Lady Alcohol,
awaiting your beck and call,
pleasuring you in ways
that I never have understood.
You leave her for weeks,
and still she waits,
like a mermaid awaits her sailor.
Her siren's call entrances you,
sending you crashing and leaving you
on the rocks,
again and again.
So, I'll leave you adrift
in that ocean of your own creation,
with the waves rising up and over you.
I am no longer your lighthouse,
or your refuge on the shore.
My light no longer shines for you,
I'll just leave you with your whore.
© Candice W. Coghill, November, 2011
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