I was eleven
when the burn started to feel like home—
not the fire,
but the numb that followed.
The breathtaking silence
of my brain slowly
shutting down.

It wasn’t rebellion,
not really.
It was just to quiet the noise.
I loved
the way the world blurred
just enough for me to forget
that I
was supposed to be someone.

Everyone said I had time.
To grow.
To figure it out.
To mess up.
But no one told me what to do
when the nights came
and I couldn’t breathe without
being swallowed by liquid fire.

I laughed louder
with liquor in my stomach,
became someone else—
braver,
happier,
funnier,
lighter.
Like pain couldn’t catch me
if I stayed moving.
Like each drink was a one
step closer to happiness.

I hid it in water bottles,
beneath breath mints and gum,
beneath the shaky smile I wore.
For teachers,
for parents,
for everyone who cared.

Sometimes I remember
the kid I was
before I tasted the end of the world
in a cheap flask.
Before the hangovers became
normal as sunrise.

It wasn’t always bad-
not at first.
Just fun.
Then risky.
Then too often.
It wasn’t always ugly—
not at first.
Just dizzy.
Then desperate.
Then gone.