whiskey.

i place my features on the walls
and leave my face on the pillowcase
just to see if i can
disguise into another skin and
still feel real.

i talk to my sheets like
they are my lover
constantly curling into a shell
with nothing inside to fill
for comfort.

i have become good at
being somebody else
other than me
until i no longer recognize
the eyes i stare into
when i paint my reflections for
the world to see.

i still exist -
barely.

i am the turmoil
within a glass of
swirling fire and
quenched emotions
on a misty night of
contemplation.