Gin
I sit here staring at a bottle of gin, dust on its top, pulled from the cupboard where it has sat for years. It holds me like I were an alcoholic. But I have never actually drank any. I have never been drunk. But occasionally, though not for a long time I will open it and breathe in a puff of its vapor just to get a sense of what it could do for me; to me. Then I put it back in the cupboard. But not tonight. This night I can’t make it through and it seems better than the knife I had in my hand earlier but I am not sure. So I stare at my gin and long for the oblivion it could burn me into.