I tell them I don’t drink and they look at me as if it’s some kind of abnormality.
Maybe it is. Maybe I am.
But I can’t drink from the same fruit that raised me, that slurred me to sleep at night, that refused to wake when my racing heartbeat stood by.
I recognised that flavour on the breath of a lover and I gave his bottle my heart instead of hers and the same cold language escaped his mouth, his shell speaking when I searched for his Soul.
Now I’m grown and I still can’t swallow bubbles that kissed their way into my mouth a decade ago by lips that stole my breath and breathed it into another in the same moment.
They told me you could inherit addiction. So I followed their footprints out of this place and chased the high not the low and I knew I was no better.
I just preferred eating flowers to swallowing lies and the addict hides.