I don’t have a drinking problem.
I have a thinking problem.
Thoughts like knives,
thoughts like wrecking balls,
thoughts that break bones
and don’t apologize.
I don’t pour shots.
I pour panic.
I pour regret.
I pour every what-if I can’t outrun.
It’s not whiskey that screws me up.
It’s memory.
It’s overthinking.
It’s the endless rewinds,
the what-could-have-beens,
the arguments with ghosts at 3AM.
It’s drinking down every mistake
like it might finally kill the taste.
I don’t stumble out of bars,
I collapse into myself.
Again.
Again.
…again.
