I think I’ve recovered,
and then I remember,
the first time I thought I had,
and I miss my naivety,
that I drown myself,
in the knowledge that I will always be struggling for air.
I have a little girl,
but not in the way you think.
She’s so optimistic,
hoping for recovery that can never reach her.
People don’t get it.
I don’t want to spend my life,
with the word “oh” before my name,
as people who can’t understand,
rub my shoulders,
and tell me that it’s okay.
I don’t know how I want to spend my life.
I don’t know what “better” or “recovery” look like.
I don’t want their hands on my shoulders.
I don’t want pity in their voices.
I don’t want ghosts to still hold onto my little girl,
nobody really gets what they want,
in the end.