Borrowed Happiness

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

where the edges blurred

and the ache softened just enough

to feel like relief.

For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

the full weight of myself.

Laughter came easier,

memories felt kinder,

and the world loosened its grip.

In that fog, pain was distant—

muted, negotiable,

something I could outrun

with another swallow,

another borrowed sense of peace.

I mistook numbness for healing

and silence for rest.

But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

Clear-headed and heavy,

left alone with everything

I tried not to feel.

The truth waits patiently

for sobriety,

for morning light,

for the moment pretending runs out.

There’s no romance in the aftermath—

only the echo of what I avoided

and the knowing that happiness

built on escape

never survives the night.

I was happy for an hour, yes.

But misery has a longer memory.

And now I’m standing in it,

fully awake,

trying to learn how to live

without needing to disappear

to feel okay.