Chardonnay by Caitlin McKenna Photo by Wallace Chuck on Pexels.com The wine is becoming rancid in the bottle, as if my restraint is toxic My mother drinks three bottles a nightbetween her and my fatherMy father can drink two glasses if he has work the next dayTwo glasses and a gin if he does not,And then when my mother has gone to bed, the vino helping her to drift,The dark spirits come outLike ghosts roaming the halls in pitch,Seeing only what is left behindAn empty glass,A television, volume set on lowSlurred speechMy mother cries, telling me she can’t do this anymoreMy brother’s knuckles’ still bleedingAnother bottle of cheap vodka I pour down the sinkI will not drink, I will not drinkNext week I am at the bar buying shots for the blurry faces around meI cry at 2am sitting on my front step,no keys, no phone, no one answering the doorI will not drink, I will not drinkGinger beer masks the taste,I would hardly notice it if not for the way I can meet the boys eyeFire in my veins I become the phoenixBut in the morning I am the ashes,Left to make apologies for the night beforeEach time I remember, feeling the growing kinship between my mother andI place the cap on the bottle.I put it away.I let the liquid grow old, turn the vinegarThinking of the acid on her tongue About the Author: Caitlin Mckenna is a student from Leeds, currently embarking on her creative writing masters. A queer, socialist, vegan, when she’s not writing she’s sending time with her cats and getting her heart broken. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Published by fragmentedvoices A small, independent press based in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK, and Prague, the Czech Republic View all posts by fragmentedvoices