Blackout Mercy

There’s a point in the night
where the world starts to blur at the edges,
and for a moment
it feels like relief.

Not joy.
Not escape.
Just the quiet before everything fades.

I drink until names lose meaning,
until memories loosen their grip,
until the weight in my chest
finally lets go of my lungs.

People think passing out is the end.
But it’s the goal.
The finish line.
The only silence I can still reach.

It’s not the taste.
It’s not the burn.
It’s the erasing.

The soft collapse.
The slow drowning of thought.

Anesthesia.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

I don’t drink to forget.
I drink to stop remembering.

To shut the door
on the version of me
I can’t stand to look at awake.

And when the world goes dark,
when the body finally gives in,
there is a kind of peace in that
a peace I pay for in the morning
with interest I never stop owing.

But for a few hours
no one needs anything from me.
Not even myself.

This is the truth of blackout drinking.
it’s not about wanting more.
It’s about wanting less.

Less emotion.
Less memory.
Less self.