The Drinker #3

Why no one thought to extricate me from an abusive relationship
That stayed that way, up until I said ‘no way’
At a sushi restaurant days before coming to Montreal in destiny
I’ll never know.

But I think people are elementary.
I wouldn’t have listened anyways.

It was my book launch for my first book and I was the star of the show.
But I preoccupied myself with his drunk self wanting to make him good.
My roadie looked to me, saying: “this is your night: you’ve got a sold-out show!”
And her message was leave him, girl, this is your night, be bold.

Talking of Drinker #3 makes me uneasy.
I saw him on my last day in Ottawa before moving to Montreal this spring.
I could see the reality, stark, clear and with no insecurity:
He is a very sick man who needs help, and none of this is me.

But how sad a world where it takes me from 30 to 45
To truly trust my judgment and his sick eyes?
I vowed never to talk to him after that tragic afternoon surprise
Where I nearly lost all my life memories in boxes left at his high rise.

“You don’t know me,” he said with fierce, fucked eyes
“Have you become worse?” is that what I was trying to surmise?
Such hurt men these sick, alcoholic guys
Who are dying to bleed their shame between a woman’s thighs.

But not even sex is good with a drinker of a man
They’re so fucking disconnected from their truth
Real intimacy they can’t understand.

And ho! What I sorted after all these men:
It’s me the emotionally unavailable one
And the fearer of closeness again!

It explains two muses across the fucking pond in London.
It explains dating drinkers who are always two sheets to the sun.
It explains my being the first to dump them,
Saves me from reliving past hurts, I reckon, from being abandoned

At origin.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, June 9, 2019