I find bottles of beer, wine and

                     vodka all over the house, like little

                     bombs waiting to blow up in my face.

 

I’m sprawled on the couch, drunkenly

making out with some random I

picked up in a bar. I can feel

something hard and cold press

into my back. My fumbling fingers

press against a bottle of vodka,

half-drunk during a binge last weekend.

 

I’m rummaging around my bed

looking for some nice shoes for a night out.

I notice the box containing my

Manolo Blahnik’s stuffed into a dark corner.

I almost pop my arm out of the socket

stretching under to get the box. I open it

to find my shoes are missing, probably left

somewhere and two bottles of wine have

taken their place. One half-empty.

 

A week before pay-day I run out of

toilet roll. I’m sure there’s some

stashed away at the back of the cupboard

under the sink. I get down on my

knees and start to go through everything.

There’s no toilet roll but I find several

un-opened six packs of beer. They’ve

been there so long they’re thick with dust.

 

                                    My secret stashes

                              haunt me. They’re echoes

                          of a life I’m trying to leave behind.