Dear Alcohol,

I hate you
in the mornings after a night of fun,
of dancing under the moon-lit sky without a care,
of kisses hidden between the shadows, nobody
watching but the stars above. Music pumping
bass through our souls and reverberating
through the doors of that little club in Orlando
we called our second home. I hate
that after booming laughter and off-key singing,
my head must ache with regret as I wake,
and you instill nausea in my stomach. But more so,
I hate what you did to my mother.
She didn’t laugh. Or sing. Or dance. No,
she fought. And I must ask you, were her words
not enough on their own, without your influence?
You laced her wicked words with vodka and wine,
only sharpening her knives. They cut
deeper and scarred wider, insults she etched
into my prefrontal cortex echoing still today.
I can hear her disgust, how I could never be good enough.
My father a bystander as she screamed
louder and pounded harder on my locked bedroom door,
my own knuckles bruising in frustration
from striking the wall myself. Wondering,
“why can’t she laugh? Or sing? Or dance?”
until exhaustion took over, cloaking me as I collapsed
into my pillow and wept silently, pleading
not only to God, but to turn eighteen
and leave this liquor store
masquerading as a home
for good.

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EDIT: Thank you for the comments so far, I really appreciate it! Please don’t be afraid to be critical and tear it apart though haha. This is one of my poems I’m most proud of so far and I would love to get it published when it’s ready, so any advice on revision is great.