The bottle sits on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. The price tag, still on the glass, is peeling from too much contact with blindly searching fingers. The tumbler sits on marble from a life long since dead, a sticky ring of soda and whiskey preventing it from slipping along the surface. Permanent homes for temporary 3am fixes. A jaw set too tight, and eyes itching from the salt that seems to pour as easily from them, as the whiskey does from the bottle in shaking hands. 

Temporary fix, but the burning is a staunch and heartless reminder of the silent room. The sound of blood pounding in ears that also pick up the harsh rattle of air blown violently out of lungs, deflating a chest that lately seems too taught, too rigid. The chalky taste of medicines mixing with the burning of alcohol softly brings up warnings and dangers that ring from a child’s voice that once believed herself to be above self destruction. But knowledge is power, and eyes too tired to check the times crush the images of promise filtering through the haze. Knowledge comes at a price, and nothing stops a mind once it knows. A body to young to be world heavy, taken advantage because it is still young, and once very taken care of. 

So a temporary fix holds longer, and is welcomed in the early rays of sunlight. And an absent-minded thumb plays with the sticker while a quick dip with a finger gauges the depth of the remaining patch. And the mask slips on, as another night fades. The tumbler returned to its perch, the bottle to its home, waiting for inevitability to pull another all nighter. 

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