No one asked
why I laughed too hard at 9 a.m.,
why my hands shook
when the room was too quiet,
why my bag clanked,
why I kept a hoodie on
even in the heat.

I was thirteen,
and life felt too big to touch,
too sharp to feel,
too heavy to hold.
So I drank
to make the edges blur,
to pour myself into something
that wouldn’t look back.

It wasn’t parties,
no red cups and loud music.
It was alone—
behind the shed,
on the walk to school,
in the bath and the shower,
in the bathroom
where the light buzzed like a warning.

I became good at pretending.
At saying “I’m tired,”
when what I meant was
“I don’t know how to feel without this.”
At showing up
with just enough smile,
with just enough conviction
that no one questioned.

I knew how to count ounces
by gulps,
how to dodge the questions
by asking more.
How to stare through mirrors
and see nothing worth saving.

Some nights,
I whispered to the ceiling
to make it stop.
Other nights,
I hoped it wouldn’t.
Some,
I hoped I would end.

I don’t remember the first time I felt lost.
Only the days
I stopped trying to be found.

But there are moments now—
small, aching seconds—
where I feel the breath come easier.
Where I taste water
and it feels like a promise.
I’m still here.
Somehow.
Still trembling.
Still choosing.
Still reaching for a version of me
that doesn’t need to disappear to survive.