Short

She only seemed to drink when 

nothing seems to come out of her;

straight down, neat;

without a sound,

where most people would choke.

You could always tell her glass apart,
chipped on the rim-

from the day she bit into it.

There were a multitude of other-

new glasses-

in the wooden cupboards,

but she always seemed to pick the same chipped glass,

despite the risk of cutting herself;

it was always that glass.

A short glass, 

big enough to fit in her hand,

small enough to fill a drink,

just enough to get her there.

With a crown base,

made her feel important.

Yet she would hold it, 

with both of her hands-

like a warm drink in winters,

as if it was the only thing grounding her.

Her fingers running over the indentations

as her thoughts would slow down and prepare

to change their tracks

and take the route through a quieter scene.

She only drank when her thoughts would drown her

and she couldn't tell the ponds apart from the ocean.

As if the viscosity of the whiskey would help her float.