I Am Not a Bartender

and suddenly i am snatching the glassfrom his hand,emptying its contents into the sink,fulfilling my mother’s promiseof never letting another mancontrol me,overshadowed bythe veilof his whiskey.

the slap stings more than the smell ofthe alcohol on his breath,but i am satisfied.phase one complete.

i am not a bartenderto your grievances.

for years, i have only knowntwo people:the you when you are sober

and the you when you are drunk.

but clever jekyll was oh so carefulto disguise his mr. hydethat i no longer could differentiatebetween the two;they became one and the same.you acted sober when you were drunk,and hoped to be drunk when you were sober.

how can you blame mefor never knowing who you really were?you can imagine my distressat not knowing who i’d encounterwhen crossing our front stepeach and every night,tiptoeing in trepidationof who i’d see stumbleinto the foyer.

let me tell youa thing or twoabout whiskey.

it fogs the brainand shatters the senses,but it is the hangover from it the day afterthat bothers me the most.

the look in your eyesas you thumb through a winter sports catalogand mutter about moving south to avoid theindomitable chill,while rubbing your foreheadto ease the migraine,is anything but soothing.

for i know that in the back of your clouded mind,you are thinking of the next drink.and i know you never meant for it to get this far,that you drink because it is the only wayyou can wrestle with your demons,when they are just as numband intoxicatedand unfeeling as you,but i am not a bartender.

i am not here to supply your pain.

call me callous and unkind,but i do not have to subject myselfto your behaviorjust because we live under the same roof.

and so begins phase two.

the bottles are removedfrom their resting placesand relocated to the grave i dugin the backyarda long time ago,as if in preparationfor this moment.

just as i am lighting the match,i hear your footsteps approaching,

growing louder like the rumble of thunder.the storm descendsand wreaks its havocand in the end,a body falls into the graveand burns along with the liquor.

i whisper to the flames,i am not your bartender.i am not here to feed your addiction.i am sorry it had to come to thisbut it didand it is done.

i finish phase threeby burying the pastand looking aheadto a clearer future.