It started with a red cup
at someone’s brother’s party—
too loud, too dark,
too much everything.
And I drank.

It burned like truth
and felt like permission.

By thirteen,
I knew how to hide it:
mouthwash, eye drops,
a tilted smile in morning classes.
I memorized the lie:
I’m just tired.
I’m just fine.
I’m just.

There was a girl who said she liked
how I laughed when I drank.
There was a night I forgot how to stop.
There were mornings I didn’t remember
what I’d said,
who I was,
where my dignity had wandered off to.

I kept drinking
because it made me quiet inside.
Because it gave me something
to blame for the way I already felt.
Because the bottle never asked
why I was so sad
in a hoodie and headphones
at 8 a.m.

The other kids thought it was funny—
that I was bold,
that I could chug like a legend,
that I was ”crazy.”
They didn’t see the shaking.
They didn’t see the crying in the shower.
They didn’t see me
googling “how to stop”
with a drink in my hand.

And I’m scared
that this will be the story
I keep retelling,
forever,
instead of becoming someone else.