A Little Too Much

I’ve been told

I take my anger out on everyone else,

like I’m swinging at shadows

because I’m too afraid

to hit the truth.

They say I’ve been drinking too much,

that my nights blur together

because it’s easier

than remembering them clearly.

That the glass in my hand

has become the closest thing

I have to quiet.

And the worst part is—

they’re not wrong.

I see the hurt in their eyes

when my voice gets sharp,

when my patience snaps,

when I become someone

I promised I’d never be.

I know they’re reaching for me,

but half the time

I’m too far inside myself

to reach back.

Some days I don’t even know

who I’m trying to protect—

them, or the version of me

that’s already breaking.

I don’t drink to forget.

I drink because remembering

hurts in ways I can’t explain.

Because silence echoes,

and loneliness grows teeth,

and some nights my chest

feels too small

for everything I’ve swallowed.

I wish I could be better,

softer,

easier to love.

But most days

I’m just trying to keep myself

from falling apart in the middle

of someone else’s arms.

And I know—

I know—

I’m losing pieces of myself

trying to outrun pain

that follows me everywhere.

I just hope one day

I learn how to stop breaking

the people who stay.