Why I refuse to be called an alcoholic.

Baileys. Creamy silky liqueur. As it went in me, a burning calm. My tongue lingers for an extra drop. He sees my happiness as I drain the glass, and asks, 'What is it, about alcohol, that you so love?'

I ponder.

Is it the taste? From the bitter to the sweet, from the fruity to the dry, from the light to the strong.
Is it the aroma? From the smoky single malts to the coffee-laced crèmes, the spring garden scents of champagne to the wintry strength of rum.
The colour, perhaps? The silently strong vodka to the dramatic show-off merlot? The grand oaky whisky or the golden sunlight of beer?

Well it's all of those, I feel. But what makes it truly wonderful? A thing to be enjoyed, a craving, a companion? The answer lies in the effect, I feel. What alcohol does to us. What it brings out in us. What it makes us be. Or want to be.

It uninhibits some people,
some, it calms.
A few, it angers,
Most, it allows expression.

In him, it brings out the comedian.
In me, the poet.
It saddens a few,
and makes brave many more.

It makes strangers appear friendlier,
and loneliness feel lyrical.
It makes the drear of reality seem distant,
and really, what more can one want?

It is a vile poison;
and yet my precious nectar.
It brings me so much pleasure;
I wonder why they could think of just seven deadly sins.