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I found God in a bottle—
not holy, not whole,
just hissing.
Like something dying slow
in the corner of a locked-up house.
I started small—
just a taste,
just a stupid dare,
just to feel something
that didn’t hate me back.
The first hit was a miracle:
the walls pulsed,
my heart stopped arguing,
and the silence inside me
finally made sense.
Nobody tells you
it’s not the high you chase—
it’s the drop.
That moment before it hits,
when your body forgets
it’s full of bones and shame.
I prayed with my mouth wrapped in plastic.
Nailed myself to that breathless light.
Every inhale a confession.
Every blackout a sermon.
Every gasp—hallelujah.
My mother cried
like I’d already died.
Maybe I had.
Maybe I liked it better that way.
I don't remember joy anymore—
only the stillness.
Only the God who never judged,
never left,
never said I was too much
or not enough.
Just said,
breathe.
And I did.
And I do.
And I don’t know how to stop.
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