I Was Abused, So Why Do I Drink?

Abused Why Do I Drink?

You ask me why I drink?

I drink to forget.

To blur the memories.

his voice like a curse,

his fists like thunder

falling on a child

too small to fight back.

He was the monster in my room,

the shadow behind every door.

My stepfather.

Pure evil

wrapped in a man

they told me to call him “dad.”

My mother laughed

when I tried to tell.

My sister smacked me,

said I was lying,

always lying.

But I wasn’t.

I was bleeding truth,

spilling pieces of myself

just to be seen.

And still they said,

“Stop telling these lies.”

I drink

because no one believed me.

Because silence

was safer than the truth.

Because the child inside me

never stopped shaking.

I drink

to hush the screams

only I can still hear.

To drown the weight

of what they refused to see.

I drink

not for escape,

but to survive

what they chose

to forget.

When he died,

I was so happy.

I spit on his grave.

Now,

he can’t hurt me

no more.

So why won’t it all go away?

It started

as laughs and vodka

at friends’ houses,

at parties.

Then it ended,

in a mental breakdown.

And I was happy,

because the doctors

believed me.

When the world

turned away

from a ten-year-old’s “lies,”

they forgot,

it started

when I was just six.

Now an alcoholic at 26

they believe me

Thank you god.