Bitter Communion

It must have been October-

I remember the cold.

But then again,

I was always chilled

when I drank and got high.

Could you taste the liquor?

Bitter lies coating my tongue.

Truths I drowned,

but you always knew—

how I chose to escape

over being present with you.

We were too young to marry.

And yet,

in a Catholic Church we stood.

Floors groaning beneath

our teenage feet,

heavy with rebellion.

I stumbled through the halls,

you steadied me—

as you always did.

You smirked,

and I wondered:

why I chose vodka

over the sweet wine of your lips.

You took my hand,

and we walked in stride,

pretending it wasn't a lie.

Was it the liquor,

or the pills,

that sent each motion

lurching through a haze—

my heartbeat a distant funeral drum.

And still—

In that room, I was yours,

the one you chose

to marry first.