The happy hour turns sour

when the weekenders pile in

My deadlines past and nothing

but a naked page and empty shot glass

staring back at me.

"What a loser" the shot glass sneers

"You can't even finish a job you love."

"You're wrong," I snap back

refilling its open mouth.

No artist loves their work."

"You don't love me anymore?" the page whines

holding back a sob.

"No, of course I do," I say

gently stroking its flat surface

"You're my inspiration.

so white

so blank

so empty

empty so that I may fill you.

you are infinite possibility."

"How poetical" the shot glass taunts.

"Shut up!" I shout back.

"You muddle my brain

abuse my liver

disease my heart

distract me from my dreams

you're the devil!"

"Use me!" the paper cries.

"One moment, my love-"

"You don't know love," the shot glass interrupts.

"You only know need

and you need me."

"Alright, motherfucker, you asked for it-

I pull the glass to my trembling lips

emptying its bitter contents.

I close my eyes and feel

the sweet tingle all the way down.

"I'm leaving"  the paper floats towards the door.

"You see?" the shot glass snorts

"You ruin everything you touch.

She's leaving as empty as she came to you"

"You're empty too, fool," I say.

"Not as empty as you."

I take him by the throat

slide off the barstool

and fling the bastard against the wall.

He breaks apart like a ripe watermelon.

Each broken little piece

trembling on the sticky floor

whispers its spite

I grab the paper by the hand

take my pen

and start to write.

-eric layer

2006