there is a poem in my life
it’s deep-rooted, grasping into
the sponge of my brain matter,
soaking into the dirty rust
of my bloodstream,
perfuming the air that I breathe

this poem is made of
white walls and anxiety
the rich smell of pine
the soft melody of words unsaid

this poem is the
tip-tap-ing of my heartbeat
speeding up now
the slow snake of sweat
lazily making its presence known

this poem, it’s the bloody
mess of cuticles
the shredded skin around
my fingernails
the maze of salted drops

this poem is composed of
oxymorons and opposites
deadly realizations and
naive bliss
of everything I’ve dreamed of
and my personal hell

this poem is recovery.