If I went to a professional they'd probably say it started when I was younger
Which begs the question why it didn't affect my older brother

Maybe it's just the way my brain is wired
I'm just so ******* sick and tired
Of being so **** sick and tired
Why am I always so ******* tired?

I just go through the motions
All the days just blend together
The only thing keeping me going
Is the hopes that this won't last forever

I can say that I care about a few things
But it'd be only to myself that I feed lies
There's a lot I need to get off my chest
But it's hard when I have to make it rhyme

I don't consider myself a poet
More of an alocoholic with a pen
I get myself into a drunken haze
And spill all the thoughts in my head

You're probably wondering where this is going
And I can't say that I have the answer
I kind of just type away
Until I start to feel a little better.

I always thought I knew what cologne smelled like.
It was harsh and made my eyes water and nose burn.
All I knew is that my dad wore it religiously.
I always thought my dad wore cologne.
I was ten years old when I learned what whiskey smelt like.

I was sixteen years old when I took my first sip of whiskey.
It was weak, mixed with diet coke, but it still left my throat burning.
I never liked the taste, but when I brought the cup to my nose and smelt the bitterness and I saw the eyes of my father, I knew that the smell was so much worse.
It was that moment when I understood why people drank to forget.

That night I closed my eyes and I saw the black label of Jack Daniels Whiskey, I saw the long brown paper bags that my dad hid in the cupboards, I saw the coke cans littered around our trash can.

I was too young to understand, but with whiskey running through my own veins I connected each individual dot like each sign a constellation.

I set the cup down and winced.
My friends laughed, of course.
They didn’t know.
They’d never even guess.
They probably thought I was a lightweight, a girl who couldn’t even handle a sip of whiskey.
I smiled, too.

I don’t think I’ll ever drink whiskey again.

When my friends think about drinking they see parties, and wild nights, and crazy hangovers

And when I tell them I never plan on letting a sip of alcohol touch my lips, they're scandalized

Because they don't understand

How could they ever?

When I think of drinking, I think of my mom passed out underneath our Christmas tree

Or my dad swerving down side streets with the smell of whiskey wafting off of him like smoke from a campfire

I see my childhood that came crashing down in front of my eyes

I see something that they will never understand

My hands feel cold like ice cubes
They are shaking and awkward
My hands are aching for contact
They are yearning for the touch of your hands
My hands are confused because they don't know what to do when they aren't intertwined with yours
They are incoherent because they now only know what it feels like to hold on to a bottle of liquor

We,
who watched them,
down bottle after bottle.

We,
who are afraid to look
at a mirror, simply because
we’re scared to see
the alcoholic who raised us.

To all of us who don't look,
knowing we'll only
​see our predecessors -
those who couldn't stay sober
enough to raise us -
instead of seeing change.

my friends watched, as I tore the madness from my skin.
this is a battle I’ll never win.
and maybe I don’t want to
so thanks for not caring
going out with yesterdays makeup
no one cares what you are wearing
when all they want to do is soak you
in all the liquor they can find
and all the drugs to make you unwind
because then they know you’ll be easier to take advantage of
you don’t rise above
you think you deserve to be hurt
you black out and wake up with bruises all over your wrists and arms
you don’t remember a thing,
then you get a text saying,
last night was fun

-last night wasn’t fun if you had to hold me down

i wrote poetry
he partied
i would overthink
he would oversleep
too lost within the oblivion
of trying to numb away
life
while i was here
thinking about "life" too much
writing about it too much
i enjoyed wine
on a quiet Tuesday evening
he enjoyed liquor
on a wild Friday night

surely
truly
love does attract
"opposites"
i loved him
and he loved me
but he didn't want to live
life
and i
wanted to write about it

we're sitting
in a ***** garage
blasting music
with lyrics
that i am so appalled by
this is his life
this is
it isn't mine

i am
the quiet
Tuesday afternoon girl
who writes her words
to figure out
life
while he is trying
to forget about his
on a Friday night

these lifestyles
we tried to clash
for far too long
so sadly
too long

i left
with love still
beating inside of my heart
because you could never
love me
the way you love
your Friday nights
like you couldn't love
my Tuesday evenings

love is so
crafty
and deceiving
it brought us to meet
we both understood
that life is sad
yet only i
could see its beauty

and our lifestyles
were too different
to sustain the life
for one another