It's 6:20pm.
I'll be back at work,
In my messy classroom,
In roughly 12 hours.

Currently,
I'm tipsy
and slapping my
right shin
repeatedly
in a desperate attempt to
feel something.

The skin is reddening,
but I remain removed
from the present.

I feel nothing.

Usually,
I'd interpret this as a positive.
I haven't truly enjoyed
sober
time alone with myself
since I was 10 years old.

Now,
though,
I'm confused as I watch my
skin redden
as my mind fails to
register the sting from my
relentless slaps.

I almost hope it bruises.
I almost hope to see
a temporary reminder
that I'm not okay,
that outlasts my
drunken state.

Even as I write this poem,
I regret my choice to
drink so late this evening.
With less than 12 hours
until I need to be in my classroom,
I know I'm toeing the line.

I almost hope I get caught.
I almost hope someone finally notices
how 'un-okay' I am.
I almost hope a friend
starts the difficult conversation
with me.

At the same time,
I know I'd regret
losing this chance to
get along with myself,
if I ever got sober.

I'm not happy,
but the time in which
I genuinely experienced happiness
has long since passed.

I'm never happy.
I'll never be happy.

The least I can do
to soothe the burn
of this realisation
is drown myself in
alcohol.

I am a broken person
who relies on other broken people
to feel seen
and heard.
And I pretend
not to notice that
my behaviour goes
entirely against
the values I believe in.
© O.M.A

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