You sold your soul at thirteen. You began kissing more bottles than girls,
trying to substitute for some kind of emptiness you didn’t understand.
A kind of emptiness that no one should have to try to comprehend at thirteen.
Wishful drinking, you liked to call it.
Restlessly searching for God in the bottom of each bottle hoping
maybe he would give you the answers to the questions that hung from your bones like lead ornaments.
But instead you were staring at your own reflection.
I suppose you grew accustomed to meeting yourself at the bottom of the bottles,
and I suppose that’s around when you stopped searching for God.
You picked up smoking around fourteen, maybe you figured that if God wouldn’t meet you in a bottle,
then maybe you could find his name spelled out in the swirls of smoke with which you surrounded yourself.
You felt abandoned, you felt like he was the one to blame for taking everything away from you.
Fifteen, you stopped searching and started hunting.
You were angry, which I suppose is understandable.
You had a lot of questions, and they only got heavier and they never stopped haunting you.
You hunted him behind the teeth and between the legs of any girl who would let you.
You didn’t love them and you knew it, but they made you feel less lonely, even for a little while.
At sixteen I suppose you finally gave up. You realized that liquor bottles are not genie lamps,
and there are no three wishes at the bottom of the bottle.
And at seventeen I suppose you accepted that God was not answering.
You allowed your bad habits to be nothing more than they were, numbing mechanisms.
You decided that the difference between liquor bottles and genie lamps
was that you only had yourself to be angry at when nothing changes after seventeen shots.
There is no genie to blame at the bottom of a liquor bottle.
k.m.k- “The Difference Between Liquor Bottles and Genie Lamps”