Practicing writing a short song-based story every day. Here’s today’s.

Based on Demi Lovato’s song “Sober,” so trigger warnings apply: substance abuse, self-harm, depression, death of a family member.

She’s not sober anymore.

She wants to apologize to her father, for all the drinks she’s spilled onto herself and others, for everything she’s spilled onto the floor only to slip and fall in the liquid directly after. She wants to apologize to her mother for her failings, for the tears she shed the last time and for the tears she’s likely to shed now.

But her father’s dead now, isn’t he, and her mother rarely looks her in the eye.

She wants to sleep forever, or at least until the shakes are gone. The cold sweats are what wake her up, though, the violent body-racking jitters that make her feel like she’s dying.

She wants to return to herself but he also wants to disappear. Her arms have scars of more than one kind.

She does it when she’s lonely, sure, but she does it when she’s not. She does it for a good time and to set others at ease, but she’s only human, isn’t she? She’s got no excuses because no one really does, she’s found.

She’s not sober anymore, and she doesn’t know why. It’s not like she’s lonely. It’s not like she’s dying yet, albeit trying to kill the darkness inside her might explain a thing or two.

Either way, she’s here again.

She has apologies to list out, more than her fingers can count, and she doesn’t only hurt people when she’s hurt herself. She’s down for a good time, until she’s not. She’s only human. Sometimes she wants to cave rather than fight, wants to block out the bright light of every daytime she’s ever seen.

If only there were someone to blame, besides herself. But that’s the ticket, isn’t it? That’s the punch in the gut, the final blow. She’s the one to blame, and it wasn’t her intention. But here she is.

It’s a familiar road, a worn one that’s getting old. She’s sick of the side-eyes and the frowns, sick of the plastic medical bracelet strapped to her wrist and the tacky feeling in her mouth. She’s sick of scratching at her own arms. She’s sick, sick and tired.

It’s a familiar road, but she’s holding onto the hope that there’s an exit ramp in sight.