Recovering
I am
a little off
never quite
fitting in
mildly autistic
a little bit artistic
my childhood acidic.
I am young
the first time
I say I
wanna
die.
Less than nothing
happens,
changes,
rearranges.
I am outcast,
unaware of
what to wear,
how to act,
who to be
(don’t know how to be me).
I am hopeful
for a moment,
a great bit button
named college,
push to restart.
I am not winning,
not losing,
barely
being.
Being
sucked under
by alcohol
and depression.
I am lost.
I am still alive,
barely.
If at first
you don’t succeed,
take more pills and
try, try again.
I am locked up
time after time,
doing no good,
for my own good.
Suddenly,
I am grieving
for my grandfather,
then I move in
with my grandmother,
I feel hope,
love,
a chance.
I am starting over
in the wake of
losing her too,
grown up a bit
and
hopeful
more than
I was
ever helpful,
more than I deserved.
I am a new creature,
rising from the ashes,
given yet another chance.
I am growing.
I am recovering.