Another night, another drink.
Not too much—just enough.
Enough to ease the tightness
when I think of your hands on my arm.
Sober, it’s too much.
My chest burns,
tears press forward,
my breath turns on me.
I try to ground myself—
TV flicker,
phone glow,
messy bed,
tight socks,
empty bottle.
Five things I can smell—
but I stop.
The bottle stares back.
Still empty.
I head downstairs,
open the fridge,
grab a few more.
Not to get drunk—
just to keep the sting away.
I say I’m healing.
Say therapy’s helped.
But I don’t believe I have a problem.
My bottles are quiet enough to believe me.
They pile beside me,
the only ones
who know the truth.
