I don’t know how to explain it.
How to make anyone understand
the way alcohol sinks its claws into me—
not soft, not gentle, not whispering like some romantic tragedy.
No.
It fucking rips.
One drink. That’s all it takes.
One drink and I start erasing everything I’ve built—
every apology, every attempt, every ounce of progress
gone in a wave of warm poison down my throat.
And I know what comes next.
Thirty more.
Slurred words, broken promises,
decisions I’ll regret before they’re even finished.
And the worst part?
I’ve done this before.
So many times.
I’ve watched myself destroy shit in slow motion.
I’ve seen the look in your eyes as the damage lands,
and I still fucking pick up the bottle.
I drink when I’m sad.
But after the first shot—I’m not there anymore.
I don’t know who takes the wheel,
but I swear to God it’s not me.
Because when I wake up, when I read the messages,
hear the stories, feel the distance—
I hate that fucking guy.
That guy who called it love, but handed out hurt.
That guy who laughed too loud,
disrespected everything sacred,
took what wasn’t his to take,
and still somehow felt justified in the moment.
How fucked up is that?
How twisted must your mind be
to convince you it was okay?
To let you burn it all down and smile while you do it?
I look at what’s left—
charred remnants of what was once us,
and I feel sick.
Not just guilty. Not just ashamed.
Fucking sick.
Because I didn’t just break your trust—
I shattered the version of me that was safe for you.
I didn’t just blow up my life.
I ruined the one soul who ever made me feel like maybe—just maybe—
I wasn’t a complete lost cause.
And now here I am,
standing in the wreckage,
saying I’m working on it.
Saying I’m changing.
Begging for you to wait.
To give me another second,
another breath, another shot at being someone you could believe in.
But I hear how fucking pathetic that sounds.
I know how it reads.
Who the fuck do I think I am
to ask anything from you now?
After all the damage?
After all the chances?
And yet—
here’s the part that wrecks me most:
You should walk away.
You shouldn’t forgive me.
You are worth more than this broken, bleeding mess I keep becoming.
But if you walk away…
I don’t know what’s left of me.
Not without you.
Not without the hope of you.
And how do I live with that?
How do I swallow that truth and still breathe?
I’m stuck in this sick paradox—
knowing you leaving me might save you,
but also knowing it will might end me.
And maybe that’s justice.
Maybe that’s fair.
But fuck…
it hurts.
And I’m so fucking sorry.