i suspect the cats know i'm an alcoholic.

I woke up at three
with you next to me so
I got out of bed
and smoked some
weed, and i thought
about how i
used to think
"why read a poem
to recapture happiness
when i could just lay
here next to you."
But i stopped and
got up this time
to vomit like the tropics

the red and milky beige cyclone

hitting the ports and shores
of white porcelain
until my empty stomach
starts screaming drunken
pub songs at me

She used to force me
to eat and i hated that
while you dont complain
about my figure at all
and i dont know whats
worse eating to the point
of vomiting or starving to
the point of that too.

Getting up was the hardest,
but i did eventually and
drank some more wine
that was uncorked and left
in the kitchen.

I used to write poems about
how i used to fall for the
wrong girls and how they
fell for the wrong me,
now im writing poems in
the dark humidity of my kitchen
with dark feline eyes watching
intently as i take each sip of
the bottle about how i vomit too much
and how i suspect
the cats know
im an alcoholic.