(Soft) Focus

The bar is

filled with smoke and faded dreams.

The rage of men who are fuelled by their regrets

turned physical, some nights, when it’s all too much.

She’s downstairs getting drunk. It’ll be best to stay up here.

But you don’t need to be

drunk to be angry

these days.

I open the door

and fear blasts through like

pressurised water finally released,

the dam bursting

the threat imminent.

The room fills within a second,

the rain barricading me in

and holding me down.

It’s cold and it’s familiar,

these blue walls, their scratched surfaces.

I repeat my processes as though nothing has happened,

I clean up the bottles, stepping on eggshells and

praying that the snoring doesn’t melt into

a silence.

I sit by the TV, my fears remaining in soft focus,

turned slightly blurry by the midnight brightness.

No sleep, again,

I pull shell shards out of my feet

and watch them bleed

one arm reaching for the bottle, myself.