People say that 

drunken words 

are 

sober thoughts.

They say when people drink,

they release all inhibitions,

and the 

words flow 

from their mouth 

almost 

as smoothly 

as the spirits from the bottle.

But they don't consider where the words go from there.

They spill upon listening skin,

they sting

like the whiskey grandma poured

on your cuts

when she had 

nothing left

to use. 

We were taught to cover our wounds.  

Tuck your head beneath

the comforter

and close your eyes until morning

where you walk down the stairs

and no mess remains

and it appears

you're 

the only one 

who can still see the stains.

Rome really wans't built

in a day,

but it takes only 

one knick

in a crack

in the cornorstone of the foundation

to send an entire nation

crumbling

to the ground

and the only resolution

from you that I have found

is to step over the remains

and act as if

they've always stood that way.

I wonder what that taugt me

about love.

Because at the ripe age of 17, 

cigarette smoke grips on to my hair

and the scent of 

second hand alcohol consumption

lingers on my breath.

And as gaurunteed as the rising sun, 

I move on to the next.

But I don't mind.

Because they have the same

bloodshot eyes

as my mother.

I long to hold 

their drug laced hands

running down my body

giving me a contact high.

Every kiss adds

to the track marks

on my arms,

no

the sensation 

in my chest

is probably just withdrawls

as you're 

coninsidentally saying

"I love you."