Brighton streets.

Clubs will continue to churn out turned up tunes into the blackness of night.
Milk madness that pours thick.
Crowds will continue to chew their gums
and hum, and swallow sickly, sweet, bitter, regret.
At first, among the groups of gurning gangs I stand with awkward feet
that don't seem to want to move with the beat.
But flicker with my sober anxiety.
People push and pierce ear drums with screams and repetitive monotony.
They have forgotten their ability to be.
Smoking I meet new faces who offer me drinks.
With twists of shame and smile I shake my head.
I laugh with the people who remind me of a life I once lead.
Bitter sweet.
The ones less wasted become new friends.
Inside I waste apologies with excuse me.
All elbows and bones shoving the soul.
But in my sobriety I dance and laugh with friends who surround me. Normality.
My ears still ring as I begin the journey home.
But we sing.
My room does not spin as I hit soft sheets.
Waking next morning with memories of a night to store in my head,
flick back to when the thoughts of drinks and drugs take up space in my brain. It's getting easier.
My eyes are wide and I am tipping on pride as I play the previous day in my mind,
with a smile.
And I do not ache or feel shame.
I do not cringe with pain as I check my funds of my phone.
I don't mean this to sound like puffed up pride. Stuffy superiority.
I'm just finding how this space of 23 fits with me. Where I can feel at peace.
Sober nights aren't always easy. They are often edging to impossible.
Making early tearful nights probable. Empty sleep eyes.
But I'm finding the line.
Knowing when it's time to say not tonight.
But on Brighton streets I get it right.