The River That Only Flows at Night

Coffee days and whiskey nights, trying to outrun the pain I didn’t choose. Every step I take is another step closer to breaking. I try to meditate, I try to sleep, I try to pray, but I still can’t weep. It all feels like temporary relief.

The distraction is being around people, but when I’m alone, the thoughts creep in. What am I supposed to do? I try to be strong, but my voice betrays me, letting too much go, sharing too much in the heat of the moment just to get some relief, only to regret it as soon as it’s said.

I stand up straight, do what I gotta do, but these inner demons start clawing at the door, begging to be let loose. And when people ask, it stays quiet. Unable to cry because the mind denies it, pushing it away when I need it most.

Trying to fake a cry just to get something out, the only way the river flows is through whiskey nights. The tears come at the worst times: driving, or when something small triggers them, rare, sharp, and leaving me scared.

I wish I could lose myself without the whiskey, but then I’d be losing myself alone. The bottom of the bottle is the only thing I trust. The bottom of the bottle is the only thing that never leaves me. My tears, like an absent father, showed up when I was young, just enough to say hi every once in a while.

The emotions buried deep inside, stifled by a life that never slows down. I beg for release, taking another pull from the bottle, chasing something that never stays. But when I need it most, it’s never there, only more sadness and a whole lot of regret.

So I turn to the grass that nature grows to ease my soul, at least that doesn’t make me regret the path I chose. But it still doesn’t stop the demons from clawing through; it just numbs the feeling, masking what’s really there. And sometimes, that’s not enough.

I crave release: the sweet, bitter burn of whiskey on my tongue and words on the page. So I keep chasing it with whiskey nights and coffee days to recover from the cold, lonely nights inside my head.