I don’t write when I’ve been drinking.
I’ve never been able to.
My mind turns into
a slurred mess
And it’s probably a good idea I don’t
Because you’d see how angry and helpless
I really feel
On most days.
I used to drink nightly for a long time
And I did it because I wanted to find a way
To fill that God-sized hole
Inside my chest cavity.
But instead, when I drank, it only magnified
This raging sea of self-hate that grew deep
Somewhere within my belly.
God, did that whiskey taste good.
The problem was the more I drank,
The more I wanted inside me.
Now I’ll settle for a glass of wine with dinner
And it serves to make me sleepy. I don’t drink
Out of anger anymore. I’m not old quite yet
But I’m also old enough
to know better.
I still hate myself,
I still don’t believe in God,
And that hole inside me has grown even bigger
But I know better than to drink
So much fucking whiskey
For no good reason.
D.H. Lee
(via Swanksalot)