By Casey Young
Editor

You tip the bottle to your head
With one last sip you pull the trigger
And the words spill from you like blood from the wound
The metal melts in your mouth just the same
Causing you to choke on the truth
Or, at least, a truth you thought you believed in
The whiskey decays to your bones as you fall to the floor
Lost again
Praying to the last drop that some sort of god may finally answer you
But you trip into the silence
And take another swig