Drunken Truths at 2 a.m.

“Drunk and shameless,” she slurs
slamming her empty shot glass
on the countertop. Her eyes
are glossed over, her face
flushed. It’s 2 in the morning
and she needs to go to bed
but there she sits, next to me,
shot glasses between us,
hands next to the shot glasses,
not sure whether or not
to go for another round.
Then she’s gripping the vodka
and says, tipping it sideways,
“The truth is
I don’t know how to cope
with the world.”
I open my mouth to reply—
to say “that’s alright,
no one does” or something
to that effect—but don’t get
the chance.
“And the truth is
I’m 24 years old and have
never amounted to anything.”
She raises her now-filled glass
to her lips as she says this
then, after tossing it back,
adds, “And the truth is
I’m afraid of failure.”
Shot glass down, clinking
with the table’s surface—
“And the truth is
I’m afraid of success.”
Her eyes pool
but not a single tear falls.
This, drunk at 2 a.m.,
is the closest to vulnerable
she’ll let herself become.
Her hand inches toward the vodka,
halts—“And the truth is
I’m tired”—stops.
Eyes on the bottle, pools blinked away,
voice almost-but-not-quite
cracking, “And the truth is
I don’t know whether to chase my dreams
or kill myself.”
She swallows the lump, blinks again,
goes for the vodka and fills
up her glass. “And the truth is,
the real truth is,
it doesn’t matter because I don’t
have the guts to do either.”
Edge of the glass to her lips.
Down the hatch.