I am completely powerless against the warmest storm, the storm I pour for myself. I lock the doors and batten down the hatches, but all of my efforts fail. As I pick up my glass the hazy rain washes over me. I forget whom I am, where I am, who you are, and what we were. How did I get here? The waves are crashing at the bottom of my bottle, and soon the lightning burns down into my bones. My thoughts are drowning in thunder. My own storm has become the death of me, and I couldn’t save myself. My tombstone forever reads, “She was always drawn to the wrong things.”