The bottle never asks questions,
just sits there, patient,
waiting for me to reach for it.
It doesn't care if I'm drowning,
if my hands shake or my heart's crackedâ
it only cares if I'm numb enough
to forget the fire behind my eyes.
Each sip is a soft surrender,
a promise to erase
the jagged edges of my skin,
the scars I wear like old friends.
But the burn doesn't heal anything,
it just makes the silence louder.
My body's a map of mistakes,
each cut a line I thought would set me free,
but freedom never comes in blood,
only in the cold sting that fades too quickly.
I reach for the glass again,
wondering why nothing ever feels
like enough.
I've lost pieces of myself in the dark,
buried them where no one will find them,
but they still whisper,
and they still hurt.
I can't outrun them,
but I can drown them for a whileâ
with alcohol in my veins,
and glass in my hands.
Maybe one day I'll find a way to stop.
Maybe one day the pieces will heal.
But for now,
I'll keep reaching for the bottle,
keep carving away the parts of me
I don't know how to love.