you ask,
how much i drink in a week.
i say, you don’t want to know —
and you hold me
as the truth splinters
through my ribs.

then you walk me
to your car,
drive me home.
make me tell you
about drinking in silence,
in secret, alone.

but you already know.
you needed me to say it.

you want me medicated.
you want me to get help.
speak to someone,
anyone.
you can’t witness anymore
as i’m losing myself.

i don’t want you to see me like this.
i don’t want anyone to.
a part of me still resists,
still says it isn’t true.

but i am an alcoholic.
only at twenty-four.
the worst part is,
i think i’ve known all along —
i just kept thinking
if i stayed quiet,
it might stay small.