Gin
Gin tastes floral on my tongue, bitter and rich.
I swirl the liquor in my glass, the laughter of those beside me fading into a low hum.
I swallow my grimace, hopeful they don’t ask, for I do not wish for their pity. Which is why I drink.
I drink within moderation preset. I am aware as a daughter and sister to have a lower tolerance. But I also know my brothers and father have stumbled home more times than counted.
My eyes drift to the blinds, sighing in resolution at the familiar brick homes, mordor in my throat.
I check my phone- nothing. Nothing from those who claim to love me. I roll my shoulders as though it may dispel the pain. It doesn’t work for long. Like a nerve pulled too tight, with its ache so heavy it feels liquid. I seek out someone who may want to honestly kiss me, and yet, nobody.
And I swallow.
I ask for another: I am told I've had enough.
When will it be enough?