Four Walls Without Wine

I have seen men drown

not in rivers—

but in bottles,

their hands trembling

like broken promises.

I have heard their homes—

plates clashing like thunder,

voices splitting the night,

children shrinking into corners

that forget how to breathe.

They say it is pain

that drives them to drink—

a silent ache

seeking a louder escape.

But pain is strange.

It does not dissolve in wine.

It ferments.

They drink to forget,

then become

what others wish to forget.

They pour hurt into glasses,

sip it,

spill it—

on faces, on walls, on hearts.

And the cycle—

like a cursed prayer—

repeats.

I do not know

whether to pity them,

or recoil,

or simply turn away

and seal my eyes.

Because—

I have also seen a house

without a single drop of alcohol,

and yet

intoxicated with ruin.

Four walls,

four souls,

each one erupting

like storms with no sky.

No bottle to blame.

No excuse to hold.

Only voices—

sharp, relentless,

crashing into each other

like waves that refuse the shore.

Here,

there is no false warmth of wine,

no borrowed numbness.

Only pain—

raw, unfiltered,

circulating

like poisoned air.

And I wonder—

is drunkenness

really in the bottle?

Or does it live somewhere deeper—

in wounds

that were never taught

how to heal?