Poetry Work

Prose: Genie

In a bottle of tequila. Where is the happiness I asked for? Where is the confidence you promised?


I’m a more of a social alcoholic. It feels indulgent and excessive to get wasted alone. At least if I pass out, someone will see me, hopefully help me, so I wont die. I’ve never been that drunk. I’ve never really thought I would die from alcohol poisoning. Its fun to exaggerate like, “Ahhhh, I’m so nauseous but I can’t get anything to come up!” I learned early on in my career that you have to take care of yourself. Your friends will be too drunk to help you.


Stumbling out of your friend’s car and up your steps, your mouth feels like a desert and your vision shifts like its wavy horizon. You’re so hungry your stomach feels as if its shriveling into a raisin. Jacket on the couch. Keys on the counter next to the key bowl. Shoes in the hallway. Shirt on the door knob. Skirt on the bedroom floor. Then, as if by magic, two bottles of red Gatorade and a pack of Saltines sit on your nightstand. Where did they-? Who did-? You scramble for the Gatorade with dilated eyes and moan as the cracking of the plastic seal. Thank you. The red ambrosia quenches your thirst and nourishes your body.


Who am I? Bearer of electrolytes. Breaker of bread. I am you. I am Genie.

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