Why I Drink (Or: Why I was drunk when you saw me at my friend’s birthday party)

by Abner Dormiendo

Suddenly gravity. Suddenly the room
spinning, my body hurtling towards you
at a rate I am not sober enough to compute

with my numbing fingers, my face already
pulsating with blood—my body’s way of
trying to save me from embarrassment

like falling, like saying things I never meant
to say, private loves, secret pains, but then
you had my arm dangling across your shoulder

like how Atlas carries the world, like a huge scapular
flung around the neck looking for penitence,
for people to acknowledge you are heartily

sorry for the things you did, for whatever
it was that they wouldn’t know until they ask.
I never felt like I have to justify my actions

so I never said anything to anyone, even
the deepest of sentiments I always have
whenever I stumble upon a mirror, staring at

a face I thought I knew, drink in hand, shard of
bottle on the floor I ungracefully avoid. But tonight,
I’m making exemptions. If you were wondering why

I was staring into thick smoke that time, I was simply
thinking of how to tell you about these things I have been
wondering about: how we are tied down to a rock

moving across a void at ungodly speeds and how we feel
very little motion at all, and how we try to stumble
across the room, cutting through air and silence

if only to make us feel a bit more aware if not
of ourselves, then of other people, of the handful
other bodies here, trying to collapse the wavelengths

of light slicing through the space between
the universes—x and y, you and I—pulling myself
towards you ever onward, ever inward.


Day 11: The only thing I picked up from the prompt was wine and love. I tried my best.

By the way, this is not based off of actual events. I’d like imagining things that never/should have happened to me.