Half Empty

The whiskey flows out of the bottle,

and into my glass cup;

halfway full,

or as I like to look at it,

half empty.

The whiskey slides down my throat

and into my stomach,

finding its way into another half empty vessel.

A half empty,

broken,

lost,

tormented,

insecure,

glass cup.

That’s what I’ve become.

That’s why the whiskey goes down in the first place.

There’s space that needs filling.

I fill it with poison.

But no matter how much I pour down my throat,

I remain

half empty.

My other half is missing,

she left me long ago.

But I am still here,

alive and

missing pieces,

with a soul that’s raging against the mundane life

as a half empty cup.

I heard a story about an old lady who lost her twin recently.

She was a sweet and broken old woman,

attempting to heal herself by writing poetry about the emotions of losing her twin.

Tears filled her eyes as she watched me read a few pieces of her work.

She had lost her other half.

I think about this,

and I wonder,

what right do I have to be half empty?

Then I remember,

I am a human too.

-C.H.