They called it spin the bottle,
but we bottled the spin— 
held our breath in glass,
caught youth like wind in a tin.

Circles on carpet, nerves in a coil,
truth or dare served on teenage foil. 
She looked. He blinked. We all pretended 
the bottle chose fate, not what we intended.

A soda bottle, half-full of fizz,
mapped out destinies on a lark and a wish. 
Lips were currency. Stares, confession. 
Each turn a sermon in adolescent procession.

But I spun nothing—I sealed it shut. 
Grew older with tight-lidded gut. 
Anticipation was a potion we sipped,
carefully measured, never fully tipped.

Bottled the spin—not just a game’s end,
but a metaphor we wore like weekend skin. 
Some kissed. Some cried. Some fell away. 
All of us bottled the spin that day.

And now, glass echoes with laughter dim,
as reflections cling to the bottle’s rim. 
We never really let it decide. 
We leaned. We watched. We lied.

So here’s to the circle,

and the floor’s slow turn— 
not where the bottle points,
but where we come from.

 

 

 

 

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