Day 14.

Feel the burn.

Feel the burn as it courses down your throat. The sweet sickly taste of cola masking the sharp aftertaste of bourbon as it makes you turn your head to one side as your eyes squeeze shut, hoping to staunch the “pain.”

Feel your skin warming up, just slightly, as you lift the bottle to your mouth and you take another sip, another gulp, and you wipe the last drops away from your lips. You pretend to be manly, you belch. You act as though you’re tough, what with the new hair cut and the tight-ish t-shirt and the alcohol in hand. You’re strong. You’re better. You’re bold. You find it hilarious that they still ask you for ID even though you’re wayyyy past the drinking age.

Then a friend comes to you, pats you on the arm and mouths the words, “Are you okay?” during salsa and all you really want to do is look down, bite your lip and murmur, “No. I’m not okay.” Because you don’t look okay. You’re not boisterous. You’re not your usual laughing self. You’re quieter now. More reserved. But that’s you, you tell yourself. I’m not boisterous. So what now?

“No, I’m not okay.” Those words linger at the tip of your tongue. Wanting. So. Bad. To. Let. Go.

But what do you do?

You pinch your lips together in fear that they will tremble and you raise your eyesbrows and the corner of your mouth and your shrug your shoulders and you pretend as though yeah, I’m okay. I’m coping. I’m surviving.  

I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

It becomes your personal mantra. It becomes the reason why you wake up in the morning, why you throw yourself into work on a daily basis. Why you decide to do all this. Why, why, why.

FSCKING why. You’re just justifying EVERYTHING, aren’t you? You’re just wanting another reason to forget, just like another cigarette or another McKenna but you can’t forget quick enough. You suck in the smoke with the avid enthusiasm of a chain-smoker and you POUR the alcohol down your throat like a fish out of water but yet. Yet. YET.

It doesn’t work.

You wake up with the mouth of an ashtray and a headache from the bowels of Hell and your heart pounding through your chest and you swear off it. It doesn’t remove the memories. It doesn’t take away the pain. It does nothing more than add physical insult to emotional injury.

And so the dream ends. Right here.

And everyday that passes by that I wake up and I’m not surprised that my bed is empty and that your gray green eyes aren’t the first thing that greets me in the morning, I salute the day and call it a victory. Another day to breathe. Live. Learn. Forgive. Forget.

I’m feeling like a breath without the air. I sure do.