Bending the truth

There’s a voice in me

that wears my face

but speaks in a tone

I only hear in the dark.

It whispers like a friend,

cuts like an enemy,

feeds me lies

I’ve swallowed for years.

“One drink won’t break you.”

“You deserve the silence.”

“Run back to the fire you know.”

That voice is my great deceiver 

that built a home in the cracks

of my exhaustion.

It learned my fears,

memorized my weaknesses,

and held the door open

every time I tried to walk away.

But today,

in a room of strangers

who know the same shadows,

I felt something shift, 

like turning to face the monster

and realizing

it’s been made of me all along.

The deceiver hates this place.

It hates the truth,

the daylight,

the mirrors that don’t distort.

It hates that I’m learning

the difference

between my voice

and its hunger.

It thrashes in corners now,

angry, exposed,

knowing I’ve started

the slow violence

of taking my life back.

The battle isn’t holy.

It’s not noble.

It’s raw,

ugly,

and carved out of scars

I no longer hide.

But I’m here.

In treatment.

Breathing through the tremors,

walking through the shame,

learning to stand

without a bottle

to lean on.

The great deceiver still speaks.

But I’m learning

to hear it

as the dying sound

of something

that no longer owns me.