little sips.

On the worst days
all I could do was sit
and sip
and sip
and sip.
Slowly the level
of the liquor
dwindled
down,
down,
down
to zero
while I shivered,
hovered over
the toilet,
heaving.
The red-tinged bile
concerned me less
than my shaking hands,
my aching heart,
my jagged breathing.
I couldn’t drink fast enough
to keep the withdrawals away.
Was my body enacting revenge,
or was I punishing it?
Who has been betrayed?