Love Drunk

You liked to drink.

Sometimes too much for your body to handle.

It didn't matter if it was seven o'clock in the morning or eleven at night; you felt the need to have a drink in hand at all times and nothing I said would change that. Intervention was out of the question at this point: you wanted to be drunk and stay drunk.

I didn't really know what was going on in your head anymore. Anytime I tried to talk to you, ask if everything was all right, I usually walked away with beer all over my face because you didn't want to talk about it; if I didn't drop it right away, you'd throw your drink in my face and storm off.

So I let you drink and drink and drink, because it made you feel better. On good nights, you would cuddle and kiss me until you past out in my arms. That was always nice. On those nights I would stay up all night just to watch you sleep, because that was the only time you looked content.

But there were some nights where you would cry in your sleep, whimper and beg for me to kill you; those nights were the worst. I didn't sleep then, either. You never remembered your dreams, your nightmares, but you preferred it that way. I would just give you the small flask we kept by our bed and you would drift off to sleep soon enough, held tightly in my arms.

People judged us and our relationship. On the outside it probably looked bad: while you were stumbling over your own feet, I was completely sober with my tongue down your throat, our lower bodies grinding together as the shitty club music surrounded us. I wasn't taking advantage of you. I would never do that to you because I love you and I would do anything for you, which included buying your next drink.

There was, however, one question that buzzed around in my head, leaving me with headaches and doubt: did you love me, too?

I had a hard time understanding you as the days went by. You would slur it, mumble it into my lips as you stripped me of my clothes. You would whisper it in my ear after we finished having sex, but you would take it all back if I refused to buy you a drink.

You hated me then.

You would throw things while you screamed at me, your hands shaking from not having your fix. You would beat me until I was blue, leave me on the floor a crumpled mess as you went to go find someone else to fill your needs.

You always came back, though; it sometimes took a few days, other times a few weeks, but you would always end up on my doorstep with a smile on your face and a drink in hand, ready to act as if nothing happened.

I would go along with your charade and pretend that the bruises were a part of the countless tattoos that covered my skin; art inflicted by you.

You made me feel beautiful.

Perhaps one day being with me would make you happy enough to drop the bottle. Perhaps one day I would be smart enough to end your drinking days and put you into rehab, because I don't think I'd be able to help you on my own. Your brother knows of a place and it had really helped him when he wanted to clean up his life. He's a completely different person now.

But I guess that's the difference between you both: you don't want to clean up. You liked things fast, dirty, and out of focus, including me.

Our relationship was destructive for the both of us but I couldn't leave you. With a drink in one hand and my hand in the other, you seemed to be happy. When you were happy, I was happy. While you were drunk off of the cheap beer, I was drunk off your love.