Some empty Jägermeister bottles sit
atop my fridge, their labels autographed
and dated cursively in purple pen.
She always signed her liquor bottles when
she finished them, a habit I admit
was slightly strange at first; I even laughed
a bit until I heard her reason why:
they’d last as glass mementos of our wild
and drunken moments. Now, each label serves
as glass-sharp slices straight across my nerves,
reminders of the girl I told goodbye
when trust and loyalty were both defiled.
I know I need to throw them all away,
remove the souvenirs that cause such stress,
but just can’t bring myself to take them down;
no, instead I’d rather sit and drown
in misery, pretend she didn’t play
a game with me the way she did the rest.
The truth, at times, is such a sour drink,
a tough to swallow dose of agony:
my feelings, like the booze that once had filled
those empty bottles staring down, were killed
with each deceitful deed she did. To think
she ever would’ve gave her heart to me
was merely pure imprudence on my part.
Yet even though I’ve realized she’s not
The One for me, I simply wouldn’t mind
another night with her and label signed:
she’s liquor to my alcoholic heart –
I can’t but help but crave another shot.
