Flatmate

Wine slips from glass to throat.
A demonstration of what dry can achieve.
The pain is less
as red rivers flow to your gut.

Your eyes follow every flicker of the TV.
The screen seduces you
until you believe
you're the star in the scene.

The spell is broken, lines unspoken.
The key turning in the lock
grates your senses, grates your soul
like nails on blackboards.

Your mother, who does not want you to die,
enters.

She wants you to talk to her,
tell her where it hurts.
But that would take more time
than future history allows.

She asks why you're here.
You're here to not be with your flatmate.

But look upon the one who bore your screaming cells.
In her eyes is your flatmate,
looking at wine the colour of love
in your glass, which you grip
sullenly.

You will find another home, another person to not be with.