The Secret Stashes
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.