The whiskey bottle

I drained the last of your whiskey bottle tonight.
I could not find the bone you insisted you'd already
thrown my way, or I'd have gnawed on that too,
to take the edge off—or create one. I have teeth,
perhaps it's time to learn to use them, whittle my
own name into a block of wood with fangs,
choke some, swallow too much, spit a cloud of
splinters and curls and sawdust into the air, 
watch it fall at my feet. I'd step out of the shavings
carefully to prove I'd been there: two bare footprints.

You only wanted me / the way you wanted me
the song goes, the song I am tired of singing,
of hearing before I am even awake. I could
sing into the empty dark wood box, I could
fill it with what is true. But you don't want one
more thing taking up space, one more thing
with no meaning, one more thing that's no use,
no use at all to you. What good is there in that?