If drinking is my source of fun,
why does a good time
always mean running from myself?
If I have to quit because it turns me
into someone I swore I’d never be,
then who was I before.
the one I was drowning at the bottom of every bottle?
And why was he so unhappy?
If I can’t be social without liquid courage,
then is the person I am
really so unbearable
that I have to shove him behind a mask,
blur the edges with beer goggles,
just to feel worthy of company?
Or was it the six shots at the bar
that numbed the thought
that no one likes me.
how could they,
when I don’t even like me?
And if I put the bottle down
and still hate the man staring back at me,
who is to blame?
I tell myself it’s just a phase,
a few drinks to soften the edges,
to make laughter come easier,
to turn silence into something I can dance to.
But the music fades,
and I am left
with the same thoughts I drowned last night,
floating to the surface,
demanding to be heard.
I wonder if the people around me
would stay
if I stopped drinking,
if I stopped performing,
if I was just me…
raw, unfiltered,
with no liquid script to follow.
But I’ve worn this version of myself
for so long,
I don’t know if I’d recognize
the person beneath it.
I don’t know if I’d want to.
And maybe that’s the real fear.
not the drinking,
not the stopping,
but the reckoning that comes
with being sober enough
to meet myself.
How many times did I come home
smelling like whiskey and regret,
mumbling apologies
that meant nothing
because I would do it again next weekend?
How many times did he wait up,
hoping I would choose him
over the bar,
the bottle,
the need to be anywhere but home?
I thought love was a foundation
too strong to crack,
but I was the hammer,
swinging blindly,
never stopping to see what I was breaking.
And now, the silence between us
is louder than any drunken fight,
louder than slammed doors
or slurred confessions,
louder than I can bear.
I used to think I was drowning alone,
but I see now
I pulled him under with me.
I have felt my voice rise,
sharp and reckless,
words cutting like glass
before I even know I’ve spoken them.
I have seen his face change,
flinch,
the way someone does
when they don’t know
if the person they love
is about to become a storm.
I have thrown words like punches,
slammed doors just to hear them break,
let anger build into something violent,
even if all I ever wanted
was to be held.
I have watched his hands tremble
when I drink too much,
not because he’s afraid of me—
but because he’s afraid for me,
and that might be worse.
I don’t want to be a threat,
don’t want to be the reason
love starts to feel like something
he needs to survive.
I never wanted to hurt anyone—
especially not him.
I look at old pictures,
trace the outlines of the man I used to be,
the man who smiled without effort,
who loved with both hands open
instead of clenching his fists around a bottle.
Was I ever that man,
or have I just rewritten history
to make this version of myself
easier to stomach?
He loved me once,
but did he love me
or the idea of who I could be
before I let the alcohol reshape my edges
into something unrecognizable?
I tell myself I can find my way back,
but I don’t even know where to start.
I don’t even know
if the road still exists.
And if I’m not the same man
who fell in love,
how can I ever ask him
to love me again?