I was eleven
the first time I sipped
away my problems,
a cold sip of vodka
down like a secret
in the garage
under flourecent lights
and the hum of nothing to do.

It tasted like burn
and rebellion.
Like maybe I could be
someone else
for a minute.

By twelve,
I knew which friends wouldn’t ask,
which liquor cabinets were rarely checked,
which lies sounded practiced enough
to pass.

It wasn’t about being drunk—
not really.
It was about floating,
about not feeling
like a mistake
in sneakers and silence.

School was a blur of
late slips
and half-hearted answers.
I wrote poems in the margins of worksheets
about disappearing
or burning
or both.

Sometimes
I’d look in the mirror
and try to find
the kid who used to laugh
without effort.
I’d find glassy eyes,
chapped lips curved
into a plastered on smile,
a hollow I couldn’t name.

Adults said
I was just acting out.
Kids said
I was a legend.
I said nothing,
mouth dry,
heart soaked.

I’m still young—
young enough to lie about it,
but old enough
to feel like
I’ve already lost too many
versions of myself
to the bottom of a bottle.