Forgetting My Name

I pour the first drink to settle my nerves,
throw it back with quick determination.
I snatch up the second to take the sting
out of the nagging bite of self- loathing,
swallowing temptations that flourish
in the amber depths of a tequila bottle.
I gulp down the third to loosen my tongue,
delight in the way it scalds my throat
and burns up the roots of inhibition.
I indulge in the fourth to feel beautiful,
drown in the seduction that warms my belly,
spreading like a potion beneath my skin.
By the fifth, I lose count and forget my name.