I am incurable

Maybe you meant it
and maybe you didn’t,
but when you said,
with your hand pressed
against your glass,
‘It must be so sad,
not being able to enjoy
a drink with friends,
now that you’ve…’

What? Now that I’ve what?
Stopped killing myself?

The part of me that still fights
got in the way and choked me,
dying to say,
‘go fuck yourself,
in your snide leather jacket,
trying to look rebellious.’

But of course I said
nothing of the sort.

Instead, I fumbled around,
searching for words
that might explain what I felt,
but feelings are still so foreign
in this new confusion
and as I spoke the claptrap of the young,
it felt like I was hiding a fart.

Still, you’d already told me
you’re a county councillor
and after confiding in you
that I believe the state’s corrupt
from top to bottom,
I corrected myself,
once a few ears had gone to the toilet,
and replaced corrupt with complacent.

The heavens opened as a smile
twisted around your mouth.

You looked left and right
as if what you were about to say
was priceless.
‘We actually lost our star rating this year,
and I have to say
complacency certainly played a part.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ I replied,
‘you’re all too busy
sniffing each other’s arses.’

But now it’s another day,
and I’ve spent a fabulous night
with poets and friends;
tears of joy, sighs of love
and good old stardust.

I’m ready for battle again
and you've allowed me to understand
the meaning of your observation.

I am an incurably
romantic alcoholic,
and I am happier now
than I’ve ever been.