Recovery

The shadows you call ‘“friends”

Will half-heartedly recite that you are heard.

That you are loved.

That you are understood.

They will speak the same cliche for an eternity,

“It gets better.”

Every shining, twinkling, bright morning,

You will wake up with the same excruciating pain gripping your chest, and all they will repeat is,

“Tomorrow will be better,”

“Just be happy with this moment.”



As miserable as a dried, dying creek,

Yet they fail to see your desolation.

You’re intelligent.

You’re talented.

You have friends.

Quit whining, they say.

You burst with sarcastic laughter,

There is no way that any one of these people

Will ever know your full story.

And they do not understand how to ask.

All they’re taught to do is assume.



For days, months, years on end,

This reality is all you will know:

Broiling resentment and cool streams of tears.

Then, something breath-taking might collide with your cheek--

Be it a reddening, crispy leaf, or a cozy beam of sunlight, or a breath of fresh coastal breeze--

Reminders of nature’s gentle presence.



The shadows were nothing but a nightmare.

Their validation was never what you truly sought.

All you needed was comfort with your own existence.



And now, you burst with ironic laughter,

Now that you are worlds away from the shadows,

The comfort can flood over you.

You can finally know what it feels like to be okay.

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