I was eleven the first time I sipped away my problems, a cold sip of vodka down like a secret in the garage under flourecent lights and the hum of nothing to do. It tasted like burn and rebellion. Like maybe I could be someone else for a minute. By twelve, I knew which friends wouldn’t ask, which liquor cabinets were rarely checked, which lies sounded practiced enough to pass. It wasn’t about being drunk— not really. It was about floating, about not feeling like a mistake in sneakers and silence. School was a blur of late slips and half-hearted answers. I wrote poems in the margins of worksheets about disappearing or burning or both. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and try to find the kid who used to laugh without effort. I’d find glassy eyes, chapped lips curved into a plastered on smile, a hollow I couldn’t name. Adults said I was just acting out. Kids said I was a legend. I said nothing, mouth dry, heart soaked. I’m still young— young enough to lie about it, but old enough to feel like I’ve already lost too many versions of myself to the bottom of a bottle.