You grab the glass bottle from the vanity you built for me.
“What’s this doing here?”
Men love to take away my baby bottle.
“You’re not drinking today, you’re depressed.”
Men always know better, always.
Always they know what I need.
They like to take care of me.
“Do you think this is going to help?”
I watch the pretty image of me nod yes in the mirror.
You leave the room with it, but decide to backtrack and place it beside me.
“Nevermind,” you say,
“You’re an adult. You do what you want.”
But I’m not. I’m not I’m not I’m not.
I’m ten years old and
I need to be held
I need a parent I need—
I reach for the Patron bottle and take a swig.
I sigh when the warmth hits the nervous system.
For now, I am twenty-seven and numb with the room spinning around me.
For now I am not ten years old and wanting for someone—
Anyone who knows what’s good for me.