To me, liquor is the same as air.
They each carry the same refreshing intake, the same crisp and clear consistency, and the same necessity in my life.
I need them both to live.
In fact, I intake more alcohol than I do oxygen, inhaling as much as I can until I lay knocked on my side in swirls of amber dreams.
When I awake, I’m incapable of swallowing my pride, so I spit it out. During the day I cannot communicate. Whenever my mouth opens, only rivers of rum flow out, catching my words and carrying them away.
The only time I’ll stop to question my addiction would be when I come to the realization that I don’t need air as much as I need alcohol.
And it is only then that I will be able to sit and watch as alcohol grips my life with unforgiving fingers. If I live long enough to grow old, I’ll only amount to be the town shut in. They’ll call me liquor lungs if they see me out and about, if I can ever leave my house at all. I'll probably be locked away on “medical rest”, an oxygen tank overflowing with vodka jammed up my nose. If I were ever to venture out, I would need to be at the mercy of my dozens of inhalers all packed to the brim with shots of gin.
But people wont cry for me.
Because this isn’t something I was born with.
This is something I chose.
I chose to take one shot at twelve, I chose to live every day fueled by toxins, and I chose for my family to leave me. I chose to have my liver fail, and I chose to be on my deathbed at thirty-three. If I could only communicate through the pools of rum that flooded down my chin, I could tell anyone who’d listen to avoid this path. It isn’t worth the thirty-minute surge of confidence. It isn’t worth the momentary feeling of tranquility. It isn’t worth your life.
But who would listen to liquor lungs?