31 and I’m still trying to calculate when bedtime should be.
Playing chicken with the time.
Should I go once the crap-talking has started
or a little later on when the banalities are pouring out,
Or sit the whole thing out for the big prize:
Knowing I’m tough
(But squirming inside).
My heart’s racing -
My stomach’s tight.
31 and I’m still listening through floorboards
trying to work out who’s right
Should I barge right in there
and speak my mind?
Say that I’m not all that tough
and I’m squirming inside
(And that my heart is racing)?
What makes me really angry is that I can’t relax
after a day’s work
or a week’s work
or a month’s work.
I’m always having to be on my guard,
Smiling and pretending it’s all in the past
But it isn’t
It goes on
And on… And on…
What pisses me off is that there’s no escape
I’m being force-fed a diet of frustration and hate
that I never asked to feel
I fucking hate alcohol
I hate what it’s done, what it does
It makes the victim dumb
and the spectators blind
I don’t want to sleep with this knot in my stomach
Not at 31.
I never asked for this
I don’t even drink.
My heart is racing
I’m not all that tough.
And I’m squirming inside.
A poem for my ACoA friends around the world.
It’s about what I call ‘after 9 O’Clock syndrome’ or the certainty that after 9pm, most of the population have already had enough to drink for them to have left themselves behind for a bit… and how scary that can be for the rest of us