Whine

I knocked over
my favourite

bottle of wine.
It hurt a little
more than I’d like to admit.
Worse. It stains my
favourite rug.
My only rug.

The colour of shame.

The colour of blood.

The colour of my failure.

The bottle
wasn’t even full.

But it held memories
to be made
that will
never be.

I wasn’t even thirsty.

I drink whiskey now.