I
don't really think
I'm a happy drunk.
I get full on the melancholy
that is my birthright.
My bloodline is compromised
addicts and alcoholics
sadists and martyrs
suicides and survivors.
I can drink for all of them
who have woven themselves into me
with love and lust and hate and pain
And I, who looks for grace,
exist because of and in spite of them
and I am grateful.
But I am still drinking.
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